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FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


BY 

BLANCHE COX SMITH 

M 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY 

FRANK S. BOWERS AND ALBERT H. SMITH 


INDIANAPOLIS: 

SMITH PRINTING COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 
4915 




^Copyright, 1915.] 

By Blanche J. Smith, 
Indianapolis, Ind. 

All rights reserved. 


DEDICATION. 


To those who have heard the 
hissing of the water in the 
pool, and have turned back un¬ 
sullied, is this volume dedi¬ 
cated, and may it help many 
more to turn back, is the prayer 
of the writer. 


TABLE OF CONTENTS. 


Page 

0 

Introduction . 

Foreword . 

Preface . 

Chapter 1—The Cottage in the Barrens. 11 

Chapter 2—The Coming of Edward Schilling. 12 

Chapter 3—Planning the Party. 13 

Chapter 4—A Trip to the Home of the Strongs. 16 

Chapter 5—The Second Reason for Edward's Trip to the 

“Barrens” . ^7 

Chapter 6—The Mysterious Outfit. 22 

Chapter 7—Dressing for the Party. 26 

Chapter 8—The Party . 28 

Chapter 9—The Hospital, Dr. Oaks, and the Trip Home. 34 

Chapter 10—At Home Together. 39 

Chapter 11—Marie at Home Alone and Her Trip Back to the 

City. 42 

Chapter 12—Marie at the Hospital. 50 

Chapter 13—A General Awakening. 56 

Chapter 14—The New Help. 61 

Chapter 15—The New Home in Indianapolis. 67 

Chapter 16—Edward, Junior. 73 

Chapter 17—The Nurse . 78 

Chapter 18—The Interview .*. 82 

Chapter 19—The Law Student. 88 

Chapter 20—The Consultation—A Plot and Its Fulfillment. 95 

Chapter 21—The Butler .104 

Chapter 22—The Babe and the Butler.109 

Chapter 23—The Wedding Preparations.114 

Chapter 24—Troubled Waters .126 

Chapter 25—The Wedding and Home Coming.139 

Chapter 26—The Funeral.146 































Page 

Chapter 27—The Testing of Irene.152 

Chapter 28—An Unearthing .155 

Chapter 29—Flight, Interception, Confession, Death.165 

Chapter 30—Four Homes—Raymond’s, the Butler’s, Harsh’s, 

Schilling’s .174 

Chapter 31—The Trial.178 

Chapter 32—The New Edward Free.181 

Chapter 33—An Interview .185 

Chapter 34—The Bill.189 

Chapter 35—The Passing of the Bill as an Amendment.201 

Life’s Whisperings—a song .211 

Chapter 36—Apology, Forgiveness, Reconciliation.213 

Chapter 37—The Wedding and the Life.226 

Chapter 38—The Castle of Good Wishes.233 

Chapter 39—The Lad and John Butler.238 

Chapter 40—Peace at Last.251 

ILLUSTRATIONS. 

That Mystic Pool. 10 

The Last Day of School. 64 

Irene Raymond . 72 

Marie Jones . 84 

Peggy Strong.118 

Mrs. Grass.150 

Edward Schilling.206 

Jack Harsh .217 

The Castle of Good Wishes.236 


























INTRODUCTION. 


“Fresli From the Barrens’ 5 has stirred my soul as nothing has 
done for many years past. At the request of the writer I undertook 
to make but a cursory examination of the proofs only; but its 
message gripped me like a vise. For several nights I could not lay 
it aside until compelled to do so by the fingers of my watch warning 
me that my family would soon be getting up, and I had not yet gone 
to bed. 

It will do as much for the “WHITE SLAVE” as “Uncle Tom’s 
Cabin” has done for the BLACK SLAVE, and should be translated 
into the tongue of every civilized nation in the world. 

As a literary work I feel sure that it is up to the standard de¬ 
manded by the reading public. The authoress has her own original 
style of expression, and the story is told in a pleasing and attractive 
manner. It is the duty of every mother and daughter in the land 
to read it. I know my wife will do so, and those of my daughters 
who are over twelve years of age will have the book placed in their 
hands. I shall strongly recommend the work to my church, congre¬ 
gation, brother ministers, friends, and wherever an opening occurs 
to do so. I shall not be surprised if the sales reach half a million 
copies in a few months. My experience of human life has covered 
a wide scope. I have been in the ministry for over twenty years. 
My travels, as a soldier and evangelist, have carried me to the West 
Indies, Africa, the islands of St. Helena, Ascension and Mauritius; 
also to France and Spain; and now to the United States of America. 
I have resided in some of the world’s largest cities. So I think I 
may say without egotism that I do not speak as a mere novice in 
these matters. I am the proud father of eight children (all boys 
but six), and all alive and well, as evidenced by the fact that they 
come to the table three times a day, and I am not mathematician 
enough to say how many times in between. They are my only 
wealth, and I do not aspire to greater riches. The only difficulty I 


have in our home, in a general way, is for my wife and I to settle 
the question as to how many of our children may go to church on a 
Sunday, or stay at home and care for the house. 

BENJAMIN G. BARKER, 

Minister People’s Congregational Church, 

Indianapolis, Indiana, U. S. A. 
Indianapolis, Ind., December 21, 1914. 


FOREWORD. 


Long years ago, before the time of the American Indian, perhaps 
before the time of the mound builders, the northern part of Indiana 
and Illinois was covered with water. From the southern shore of 
Lake Michigan, as we know it now, on down into the Hoosier State, 
almost as far south as Logansport, the one-time camp of old Logan, 
the eloquent and able chief of the. Mingoes, evidences may be seen of 
this pre-historic flood of water. Who shall say what civilizations 
were wiped out, with great and accomplished peoples, who lived and 
loved and hated and sinned and repented and boasted and labored 
and strove and at last passed off the stage of action, leaving no more 
mark than would the passing of a fish through the waters that later 
swept over their lands and cities? Who can count the fortunes made 
and wasted or who measure the successes or the failures of this long 
dead nation? 

At the present time, however, this territory is covered with fruit¬ 
ful fields, thriving cities, and peaceful towns and hamlets, and only 
the older residents remember the time when this land was a suc¬ 
cession of swamps and sand hills, and was known as the “Barrens.” 
Long after the other parts of the state had been settled the “Barrens” 
were only used as grazing grounds, or as bay fields for the farmers 
on the more favored high clay lands, or sometimes the farmers’ wives 
and daughters would make excursions into the woods and marshes in 
search of the luscious “huckleberry.” It took a long time for the 
farmer to discover the possibilities of the soil of the “Barrens.” 
Many a story such as this one could be told of the simple purity and 
goodness of the sturdy farmer boys and modest farmer girls who 
began the battle of city life “fresh from the Barrens.” 

David H. Smith. 


PREFACE. 


As I go about trying to help our poor deluded womanhood, and as 
I delve into the mysteries of their fall, my soul cries out: “Help 
those who are just staggering on the brink of that great whirlpool 
from which no earthly net is strong enough to draw them perfectly 
whole—that mystic pool, which to the victim poised on the brink 
looks so cool, so luxuriant, and so enticing, and whose wily attendant 
always stands gallantly smiling and gently lisps, “Oh, plunge! ’Tis 
so exciting. You can come out any time on the other side, and just 
see ”_ w ith an alluring wave of the jeweled hand. 

To this bewildered victim is this little volume dedicated, and may 
God grant it the privilege of causing many to draw back before the 
fatal plunge, and help them thereby to miss the terrible “other side.” 
That this may come to pass, I intend that every character shall be 
real in some one whom I have known, and though a work of fiction, 
this book shall be a true record of real life as lived in our own and 
all other cities of this great world of ours, and to our great God 
shall I look and trust for its success, and I conscientiously write it 
as unto Him who said, “Feed my lambs,” knowing that ignorance is 
the thing which causes many a poor lamb to stray. 





That Mystic Pool. 







































FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


CHAPTER I. 

THE COTTAGE IN THE BARRENS. 

A story you want? A story that lives? Very well, let us take 
an Erie train and get off at Ora, Indiana, right in the heart of “the 
Barrens.” It will be high noon when we alight, and as we trudge 
west for half a mile over the hills and hot sand you say, “What on 
earth can be here of interest ?” When our first half mile is behind us 
we turn abruptly to the left into a meandering woodland road, whose 
flickering shade, humming bees and singing birds all say to us, “Come 
and see.” One more pleasant half mile and we emerge onto a large 
back yard, neatly set in fruit trees and sown in clover. To know its 
power of attraction it must be seen, and as we wander on down the 
lane to the cross road we see that the sloping front yard is like unto 
the back. The grounds lend dignity to the otherwise ordinary house 
and barns. Let us go in at this side gate and drink from the old 
well, and be told that if we are to follow the lane a half mile south 
we will come to the bridge of the Tippecanoe. But let us stop here 
a while for this is the birthplace of Irene, the only child of Tom and 
Mary Raymond. 

Irene’s chief advantage lay in being born a welcome child, of 
God-fearing, though unsophisticated parents, through whose veins 
flowed no taint of blood or habit for at least two generations back. 



12 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


Little Irene had an abundance of that buxom health and beauty 
which only such a birth can give, and is it a wonder she l^d in her 
classes, from baby class at Sunday school on up through the common 
grades of the public and high school? At eighteen she was the loved 
and honored mistress of District No. — in the Township of Tippe¬ 
canoe. Practical as her father, gentle and loving as her mother, why 
should she not preside, be it at wedding, funeral, or at public sale, 
where the coarse-lunged crier felt at perfect liberty to cry out, 
“There, you gals! wait that table; I want Miss Raymond to figger a 
little for me,” and no one dreamed it was indelicate for Miss Ray¬ 
mond to “figger a little” for the crier; it only meant a fairer sale, 
and who of them did not know the value of that? 


CHAPTER II. 

THE COMING OF EDWARD SCHILLING. 

But “It is a long lane that has no turning.” In the days of ’98, 
when Father Time was a very tiny babe, came one Edward Schilling 
with a pocket full of money'and a double desire—one being to rid 
himself for a time of society and its fond husband-hunting mammas 
and their lovely unsuspecting daughters. 

Here he comes. Shall we call him an atom of misplaced matter? 
We might if we knew ahead what his coming means. And yet “it’s 
an ill wind that blows no one good.” Here he comes, with dog, gun, 
traps, and just a soft flush of red light tinging his countenance, but 
how shall the husky Hoosiers read? Oh, that they might! How they 
vie with each other to win his smile of recognition! Only three of 
the whole community seem insensible to his charms. Irene, ac¬ 
customed to lead and be praised, is slow to own a master. Her very 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


13 


indifference sets burning all Edward’s misled ambition to be master. 
Jack Harsh, lithe of limb and glib of tongue, has long looked with 
hope for the time when he would be man of affairs around those 
parts, and he most thoroughly resents the invasion. Feggy Strong 
looks first in wonder and then dismay as she sees that discontent is 
following the young stranger’s trail like contagion. Will these, who 
have so long loved and feared God forget Him for this glare of red 
light? 

Oh no, they shall only prove the fallacy of the adage, “Where 
ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise.” Had Edward known he, too, 
might have sought to be wise. Peggy, though as pure as Irene, was 
a specialist in her own line. Unlike Irene she, the oldest child in a 
family of ten and of limited income, had become noted for her ability 
as a housekeeper and seamstress. No garment was perfect until her 
stamp of approval was won or her hand fashioned it. 


CHAPTER III. 


PLANNING THE PAETY. 


What is this? Not a ball for these young folks? No, just a 
social evening at the Raymonds’, and Irene to entertain. Edward is 
going to show her how. Such sewing and buying and making, and 
planning, for the whole world (their world) was invited. Peggy’s 
slender purse has grown until it looks to her frugal eyes quite 
plump. She sees that John may have his new overcoat, which father 
could not buy, and little Sue the warm cloak she so much needs, and 


14 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


mother—dear, patient, self-forgetting mother—the new black dress 
Peggy has so longed to see her wear. 

“But you, Peggy,” says Irene, “what are you to have? Ho you 
know, Edward says you would look quite a, lady if made up. 

“Well,” says Peggy, “I have a start on that line, and a good one. 
My mind is well made up on one point—that Edward looks quite a 
dunce, made up or down.” 

“Now, Peg, don’t be cross. I am sure Edward is trying to uplift 
us all. I am learning from him very rapidly; he says if I could 
only get out of these ‘Barrens’ I, too, might have a future.” 

“Oh, I see,” answered Peggy. “Every future must soon have its 
past. Did he say how that would look?” 

“Well, Peggy dear, I feel sure Edward means us all good, and it 
is very kind of him to stoop to teach us ignorant folk the way of life 
more clearly. You are unthankful. Just see how your own slender 
purse has grown, and by his taking us up.” 

“My purse, indeed! Before he came here we were all content. 
The few social times we had at the village church quite satisfied our 
every desire. Now 1 it is all uproar and discontent, and you must give 
a grand musicale, and Edward must show you how. Why don’t you 
and him ask his fine sister, and let her show you how to put on airs ? 
I tell you, Irene, you are goiftg to wish, by and by, that Edward had 
never crossed your path, and that you had returned Jack’s honest 
though simple regard. I all the time feel that Edward thinks himself 
superior to us simple folks, and would not have us known to his 
grand city friends, and my very heart aches for Jack. He seems so 
noble and patient with you, though at times his heart seems almost 
broken. I tell you no good is coming to any of us by this.” 

“Why, Peg, you are all wrong. Jack and I are the same old 
friends, and Edward only admires, as he says, my superior ability. 
That you know you all do, and I’ve known it from a tiny tot up, but 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


15 


was not conscious that I knew it until Edw'ard told me of it, and 
said I was so marked as a leader that I must lead anywhere. ’Twas 
marvelous, he said, but he would tell me as a friend, I could lead him 
almost anywhere. Now when I have power like that I surely ought 
to use it where I could reach the most people.” 

Let us creep into Peggy’s workshop, and be very quiet, for strange 
things are happening there. Peggy seems witless. Now she buries 
her head in her apron and sobs convulsively, all forgetful of her idle 
machine. Now she wipes her eyes and her face is all aflame, while 
her machine runs as if in a mad race with life. Now she laughs a 
mellow, rippling laugh, as if all life was a comedy, and she most comic 
of all. Mother has come gently in, but Peggy is all unconscious of 
her presence until she startles poor Peggy by saying, “Is my daughter 
sick, or what makes her act so strange?” Gentle, patient, loving 
mother. Peggy had not meant for her to know how those foolish 
things were going or how Irene had spoken to her about the shab¬ 
biness of her own apparel, for it was not the shabbiness that hurt, 
but the being told. For was she not shabby to help father and 
mother? And what are clothes, anyway, if they help bring this ter¬ 
rible discontent? What can she do? She who has never had one 
secret from her mother? Her grief breaks out afresh, and she cries 
it all out, and by the time she stops crying mother . knows more 
about it than Peggy does. “Go, child, bathe your hot face and lie 
down till supper. You have worked entirely too hard, and my girl 
is worth more than all the clothes.” Peggy reluctantly obeys, and is 
soon sleeping the sleep of the just. For to sacrifice was sweet, but 
to have it a subject of comment—there lay the sting. 


16 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


CHAPTER IV. 

A TRIP TO THE HOME OF THE STRONGS. 

Let us go to the cozy kitchen with Mother Strong. How appe¬ 
tizing the odors that creep forth to tempt the physical man! As she 
cooks she sofly hums and thinks. She steals away to Peggy’s work¬ 
shop and takes a peep at the varied creations that hang around the 
wall, neatly pressed and ready for the wearer. Her thoughts 
run on this wise: “What a shame for my darling to make all these 
and wear that old dress herself. Of course she to me is more lovely 
than a queen in any garb, but as that young man said, she would 
be lovely to look upon dressed up.” She carefully counts the cash 
in her own purse, also the cost of the prettiest dress in the lot, goes 
quickly to the kitchen and deftly arranges the cooking, puts away 
the baking, dons her wraps and leaves the house. One brief sixty 
minutes and she is back, searching in Peggy’s machine. At last she 
finds a paper, carefully copies it, puts away the original with as 
much care and secrecy as if eternity and its issues hung on it Hot 
seeming disturbed. How lightly she goes back to the kitchen, sing¬ 
ing softly as she goes. Soon the fire is crackling and supper is 
steaming cheerily. The table is set by little Sue. Father and the 
boys come joyfully in, for this is a home in the fullest sense. All 
ask for Peggy, but mother declares she must rest, and that rest is 
more than supper. It is the first time in the memory of Sue that 
Peggy has been absent from table, and with all it is strange enough 
to be a subject of comment, and mother acts so mysterious about it. 
What can it mean? 

The evening is spent around the home fireside, eating apples from 
the well-filled dish pan which the children have filled at the old- 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


17 


fashioned apple hole, and cracking nuts in the old-time way. How 
quickly the evening goes, and it is time to arouse Peggy, for it has 
been this family’s habit for years to repeat in concert before retiring 
the Apostle’s Creed and the First Psalm, and all are glad to be 
present to take part. As yet the home circle is unbroken. Father 
Strong prays daily that they may be kept wherever they may roam, 
though none of his seem inclined to roam, so we leave them awhile to 
what men call their dull monotony—but to them it is HOME. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE SECOND REASON FOB EDWABD’S TBIP TO THE “BABBENS.” 

Let us leave the “Barrens” and take a trip to Indianapolis, to the 
firm of Schilling & Co., dealers in general merchandise and all that 
goes to make the conglomerate mass found in a department store, 
with its crowd of tired, haggard-looking working girls and its chip¬ 
per, saucy, plump miss who lives and puts on airs but no one knows 
why. Of the latter class is Marie Jones, who a few years back came 
to Indianapolis to work in the Schilling store. Edward spent a vaca¬ 
tion at her home and discovered that she, too, had great ability to 
lead him, and would have a grand future if only she came where 
greatness could be found, so here w T e find her. She now has a small 
cottage and keeps house on Massachusetts Avenue. Edward has 
been a constant visitor at her house, and often may be seen with hur¬ 
ried steps leaving her house in the “wee sma’ ” hours of the morn¬ 
ing. She has looked upon him as hers most any day for one long, 
tantalizing, semi-happy year. Scarce a turning of the Zodiac but 
the day has been set, but somehow a slip occurs that delays their 


18 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


match. “But,” Edward assures her, “we are same as one, and could 
I support you any better if Ave had that silly little piece of paper? 
Of course you won’t need keep up this pretense of work after we get 
that, but is my little mistress much overworked?” he asks. “And 
are you not mine in God’s sight?” 

And she, poor deluded, trusting, silly soul, has her fears quieted 
and is semi-happy again while he is near, and is planning for their 
next set day. She is glad, for does not Edward say, “we are one in 
God’s sight,” and yet at times that awful ache will come, when she 
wishes they were not one in any sight, and that she was a care-free 
girl again, and just a “country jake,” back on the old farm, but, 
instead of turning homeward like the prodigal, she plunges a little 
deeper into the social gaieties that Edward has set for her and 
writes less often to mother, * for somehow mother’s letters sting so. 
They are all love and kindness, but oh, they smart like a whip; and 
Edward does not allow even a visit home, lest mother be told of “our 
engagement.” He wants to surprise her after it is all over. “Then 
we will visit them together, but since our day is so close at hand it 
would be silly to say anything to them.” 

“But,” says Marie, “what special crime if I told mother? I never 
had a secret from her until I came here and knew you, Edward. 
And while, as you say, I could be no more yours because of a piece 
of paper, yet, dear, I do so long for that paper, and I so long for 
dear old mother and home, and I so want to confide in mother. I 
want to know if she and father had a courtship like ours. You 
know I never was so—so—well acquainted with any man as I am 
you, and sometimes I think you mean me harm the reason you do 
not allow me to tell mother. I think I will write her all tonight, 
just as I used to tell her before I knew you.” 

What! Can this angry, beast-like human be him who until now has 
always so politely led the way which she has blindly followed? He 





FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


19 


springs up as if stung with a lash, for does he not know her pure 
old mother, and did she not nurse him back to health when he first 
got that tell-tale glow that might tell so much as it burns on his 
cheek? Was it not the pure, homely fare and life of the farm and 
her simple motherly nursing that patched him up, and did he not 
tell her he felt the money he paid could not prove sufficient reward? 
Therefore he desired her to let her daughter, her pure, simple Marie, 
go with him that he might help develop the best that was in her as 
a small, very small, token of his appreciation of her goodness to 
him. As this all flashes through his brain shall we say he does not 
feel for the moment a shade of remorse, and is his anger not partly 
the pain of guilt ? But he does not say so, to the wretched girl before 
him. But this he says: 

“Write! You infernal hussy, write! I dare and double dare you 
to do it. You tell your mammy and I will tell the police. Shall we 
do it now?” 

One wrote, and we read, “The way of the transgressor is hard,” 
and as Marie Jones faces Edward with his white, drawn face, set 
teeth and clenched fist, the fact that the world writes “woman” be¬ 
fore the word “transgressor” slowly dawned on her understanding, 
and yet she meekly asked, “What do the police know or care about 
you and I?” 

“You and I! My beautiful innocent? You and I! By Jove! How 
cunning—you and I. Just this, old girl. You’ve been my wife for 
about a year, and yet you can’t show the papers, and, Miss Dummy, 
if they get next 'you and F will be arrested. I will pay my fine. 
Have you the chink for yours? Say!” and he playfully chucked her 
under the arm, and laughed a mocking laugh that ought to have 
made even hell keep silence. 

But only one foolish girl alone is silent; save for her labored 
breathing and staring eyes she is quiet as death for so long that 




20 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


Edward wonders and is really interested to know just what she will 
say next. At last she asks in tones of mingled fear and defiance: 
“What have I done that you have not done as bad?” 

“Oh, you ragmuffin! You country Jake! You poor nobody! You 
won’t even be the first Miss Jones that had to pay the price of being 
a fool. Why, you fool, I lost my health for one Miss Jones; that is 
how I came to spend the summer at your house. You and I! Dear 
me! Don’t you know yet,, softy, that I am junior member of the 
great firm of Schilling & Co.? I am a MAN. What will the world 
bother about a Jones or two more or less? I will still have all the 
old hens trying to furnish me a wife, and finally some dear mamma 
will furnish me a golden-winged bird, and she will be Mrs. Schilling, 
and what will she know or care for the Misses Jones?” All the 
while he laughs scornfully. 

“Where, Edward, is the other Miss Jones ?” 

“Her? Oh, yes; I forgot to mention she is in the Potter’s field. 
You see, she lost her health over an old friend of mine, and as she 
was lacking funds for doctor bills she of course died.” 

“Had your friend money?” 

“Oh, yes; plenty of it.” 

“Did he die?” 

“Lord, no. Why should he die for her ?” 

“Do I know him?” 

“No.” 

“Is he married?” 

“Yes.” 

“Was he married when she died?” 

“Oh, yes; what figure should she cut with him, when the golden 
opportunity came and he could get a wife from his own set?” 

“Why did he not marry her? He no doubt said he would” 



FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


21 


“Oh, sure he did. They were quite happy for a while until she 
got smart, as you have with me.” 

“Why could he not marry her?” 

“Oh, you softy! Do you think pretentious folks like his would 
permit their son to marry a nobody?” 

“Do your folks count me a nobody?” 

“Well, I don’t think you would he mother’s choice for my wife.” 

“Why not? I know only you. What will they say when we 
marry ?” 

“Oh, fudge; we will never marry. Why should we?” 

As the last straw breaks the camel’s hack, so this last speech 
seemed to arouse Marie. She quickly jerked a small stilletto from 
the table and sprung at him like an infuriated tigress. The sur¬ 
prise almost proved his undoing, and before he could restrain her he 
was a gore of blood and she in a hysterical fury, but be it said to 
his shame, he cared more for her now than when she was being blindly 
led by him to this hopeless moment of despair. Now he assumes 
the role of an injured joker, and wonders that she will be so fierce 
all over a joke. “My dear girl, if you really cared for me could you 
inflict these wounds?” 

Marie’s mingled doubts and penitence were something pitiful to 
see. She could not forget Edward’s drawn face and clenched fist, 
neither could her ears cease to hear his cruel mocking laugh and 
stinging words. And to think of dear, patient mother as “your old 
mammy”—she could not see the joke. Yet Edward, so perfectly 
played the role of martyr and assumed so loving and forgiving an 
attitude, that she washed and bathed his wounds and he remained 
at her house until almost morning, and a new date is set for their 
wedding to quietly take place on the morrow. Foolish, willless soul! 
When fully awake a little unreasonable, spasmodic action on 









22 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


her part, some flimsy promises on his, and the old hidden ways of 
darkness are resumed. In the morning she is up early and is quite 
happy, for today is to be her bridal day. Then a long visit home to 
mother. Ten is to be the hour. Will it never come? At eight 
o’clock everything is ready for the trip to mother’s; at a quarter to 
nine a messenger boy rides up in hot haste to bring a message telling 
her Edward was forced to leave the city on urgent business, etc.; 
will she forgive him and love him still, and believe him until he can 
explain and make good? And so we leave her for a while, white and 
prostrate, too disappointed to even arise from where in her grief and 
shame she fell when the truth of the situation dawned fully on her 
simple mind and heart. There she lies, and views with awakened 
eyes her whole life, from childhood to now. How the hitherto 
meaningless things stand out now, fraught with the greatest im¬ 
portance! So she lies low, another victim of man’s baser self, which 
at that last great tribunal will lay him as low as she, who, though 
waking, knew not when or how the glorious day faded and left her 
prostrate in night so dark and storm-filled that not one tangible 
object, however familiar, could be seen, and the howling of the ele¬ 
ments outside are only indicative of the furious storm within. And 
so we leave her for a time, alone with her conscience and her God— 
not even a live coal in the grate to take the chill from her icy hands 
and feet, nor one warming ray of hope to melt her frozen heart. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE MYSTERIOUS OUTFIT. 

Let us go back to the wholesome home of Mother Strong, and 
find if we can what that bundle of mystery contained. It is the 
morning following Peggy’s outburst and Mrs. Strong’s hurried trip— 



FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


23 


where? Only one short week remains until the wonderful affair at 
the Raymonds, and Peggy has only one more lass to fit out (thanks 
be), and then all the eligible lasses for miles around are ready but 
herself. When she wakens up the sunlight streams in at her win¬ 
dow, clear and cold, but steady as time. She arouses herself and 
wonders why she did not awaken as usual, when the sun fired his 
first salute across the hilltop. From the noises downstairs she 
knows that breakfast is over and mother and Sue are washing the 
dishes. How strange it all seems. She cannot remember for years 
when mother cooked breakfast, and she wonders what she really 
found, and if the boys liked what mother cooked, and if it will 
bring on one of mother’s, headaches. Then she is ready to 
huiiy up, dress, and take the load from mother’s shoulders, when 
mother peeps in at -the door and is as surprised to find Peggy awake 
and in bed as Peggy was to find her cooking breakfast. She fears 
Peggy is really sick. However, a few minutes of their frank ques¬ 
tioning and they have a clear understanding. Then mother asks 
about the sewing. “How many of those wonderful suits have you 
yet to make, daughter?” she inquires. 

"Thank Heaven, only one. Then I must try to fix my own last 
year s dress to be presentable. What a good thing for me that the 
girls all got so crazy. But do you know, mother, that while I think 
I have about all the money the poor souls have had for their own 
for some time, and ‘Edward says’ (oh, dear me) that I have done it 
all too cheap, and for such work in the city (how interesting) I 
could have more than doubled the money, and of course he knows— 
yet, mother dear, you cannot know how I long for the old days 
when we were all content, when Irene seemed quiet and contented, 
and really seemed as if she would some day love and marry Jack. 
Now I really tremble for all the girls, myself with the number. For, 


24 


FRESH FROIM THE BARRENS 


mother dear, I love our home just as I always did, but I find myself 
wondering about those marvelous things of which bright Edward 
tells us, and an unrest is in my soul, such as seems to get in the 
sparrow’s wing when it tries to fly from the home nest and falls 
bruised and bleeding from the old tree top, and who can tell—will it 
rise and soar away to greater freedom and possibilities, or will some 
sly old cat, with her wider experience, lie waiting in ambush, and 
will the poor, weak, inexperienced bird come to an untimely and in¬ 
glorious end? All this I ponder, and more, and I look more with 
dread than joy to the coming event.” 

A silence that could almost rival that mentioned as taking place 
in Heaven falls between them, and neither of them seem to even 
breathe. Then Mother Strong lays her hand lovingly on her daugh¬ 
ter’s and tries to look through her very soul as she asks, “And is my 
daughter, too, infatuated with King Edward ?” 

“Oh, mother, no; I am only wondering about the tales he tells. 
You know I have never cared for boys, only our boys; and I feel! 
sorry for Jack. But Edward I do not care for at all. Irene scolds 
me so much and seems to think I am so prejudiced against him, and 
that he is so interested in us all. But the sight of him turns my ( 
very heart to stone, and all that is left living in me cries ‘Evil! 
Evil! Evil!—Resist! Resist! Resist!’ and so I find myself out of 
tune with all about me but Jack, and I really think Jack would like 
him only that he thinks he will lose Irene. But I hate him, mother—” 

“Not hate, my child!” 

“Yes, mother, I hate him as I never dreamed I could hate any-1 
thing, because of the voice, that the more I choke it the louder it 
cries, ‘Evil! Evil! Evil!’ until to my ears everything in the uni¬ 
verse that has sound or power of expression takes up the cry, and it 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


25 


becomes a great wail—‘Yes, lie is evil! Shun him! Shun him! Shun 
him! even as you would the pit of hell!’ ” 

“Then heed the voice, my child, but beware of hate, for you know 
what the Book says of hating your brother. ” 

“And, ‘Who is my brother?’ ‘He that doeth the will of my 
Father which is in Heaven, the same is my father and mother, sister 
and brother.’ ” 

“Yes, child, but you do not know him after all, and he may be¬ 
come your brother, even if all your fears are true.” 

“Shall I come to his standard, or he'to mine, mother?” 

“Never lower your standard, my child. But One of old said, ‘And 
I, if I be lifted up, will draw all men unto me,’ and whatever the 
future may hold of good or ill, let my daughter be found a tower of 
strength to all these, and in Him your future must surely tell. We 
are many, and you have never had as many opportunities as I have 
desired for you, my child, but you have been a good daughter and 
sister, and we all love you and lean on you, more, maybe, than we 
should, and yet ’tis the storm that strengthens the oak, and you to 
us have become the kindly oak. And now I came in to tell you, I 
took in an order yesterday for a suit, the measure for which I be¬ 
lieve to be the same as your own. I am not at liberty to tell who is 
to wear it, so as the girls see it and comment upon it you are to say, 
‘Mother tooK the order, she will deliver it, and will not tell who it 
is for, and I do not know; it’s mother’s order. I am only helping 
her.’ ” 

Mother then proceeded to unwrap a pattern of soft rich black 
silk and brought forth the design. Not an extreme evening dress, as 
some of the girls have chosen, just a simple square neck and elbow 
sleeves, such as can be turned into practical, common sense use after 
it is all over. How Peggy’s eyes glisten! Just her ideal of what 




2 G 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 




she would like to wear after all the cruel thrusts about being made • 
up. Who can it be for? Mother will not tell. How Peggy dusts * 
around and gets to work on the last suit for which she alone is re- j 
sponsible. It is finished as if by magic, her old dress is repaired, I 
and mid-week finds her ready to help mother with this last attire. 

As all were so nearly fitted out when it arrived it did not become a Z 
subject of comment, and as all are wondering how poor Peggy will 1 
feel in her old white dress when they are so dressed up, they pity | 
her but do not look after her much. They supposed she was busy I 
trying to make some of her old clothes look respectable, and they I 
did not doubt her ability to‘accomplish the task. 

Friday night was to see the great event transpire.^ In addition I 
to the music the guests would furnish, Edward was bringing from 
the city musicians to fill all the time not occupied by the others. 
He also brought palms, ferns and flowers with which to decorate the 
house. 


CHAPTER VII. 

DRESSING FOR THE PARTY. 

What a hush has fallen over the home of the Strongs. It is Fri¬ 
day evening. Supper is over early, and mother delivers to Peggy 
the mysterious package and says, “This, my daughter, is your attire 
for the evening. Wear it gracefully, but remember that it and all 
such are only worth while when forming a mantle of charity under 
which must abide noble and unfailing character. Otherwise the 
beauty of them is like a fine china dish, clean and polished on the 
outside, but lift the lid and it is filled with potatoes so foul that the 





FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


27 


mould stands out like hair. Go now and dress yourself and look as 
beautiful as you may, but now and ever let your chief beauty be 
that of the inward adorning of a meek and quiet spirit, or, to finish 
our picture of the fine china, when the world lifts the lid of your 
life, as it often will, may it find the inside, not filled with garbage, 
but with life’s choicest fruits and virtues, and may it send forth to 
gladden those about you, be your circle large or small, the sweet per¬ 
fume and uplifting strength which only such a life can shed on those 
about it.” 

Is it any wonder that after such advice from mother and such a 
present—just to her liking, that Peggy touches and slowly dons with 
reverence the garments she so fully appreciates? When she is 
dressed she puts to shame the model in the fashion plate. She is 
neither tall nor short, and the abundance of hair rivals the gold of 
the sunshine, and her rosy complexion and clear gray eyes all add 
to the elegance of her graceful carriage and her rich though simple 
attire. As she comes through the room where the family are as¬ 
sembled a hush falls on all. They scarcely recognize this fine lady 
as dear loving Peggy until she gives them each the parting kiss as is 
always her custom on leaving. What motherly pride swells in Mrs. 
Strong’s heart as she looks at her child, and she, too, bows at the 
feet of King Edward, for was it not his suggestion that brought it 
all about, and she spends the time of the musicale at the Raymonds’ 
at home thinking, dreaming, wondering—is Peggy really great, and 
would a flight from the home nest develop the best that is in her? 
And shall she—could she let her go? Father Strong snores on, 
louder and longer than is usual for him, seeing his rest is broken by 
mother’s absence. Has he not asked God to keep all his where’er 
they roam? So why lose sleep, and why think and think, and why 
not snore if he wants to? So we will leave them and go to the 
party ourselves. 


28 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE PARTY. 

The Raymond home is a blaze of glory, subdued by well arranged | 
banks of ferns and palms and flowers, and, as is always the case ! 
with country affairs, convention forms no special part of the even- j 
ing. From the parlor issues forth strains of music by the orchestra , 
Edward has so kindly provided, such as has before touched only a 
very few of their ears. How their simple hearts respond, and “All 
went merry as a marriage bell.” Really as they watch Irene and I 
Edward so graciously entertain they feel sure that shortly ’twill be ? 
indeed a marriage bell. Surely they are a handsome pair—Edward 4 
with his broad shoulders and six feet two and dark eyes and well I 
kempt mustache. He is immaculately dressed, even as for the most 1 
conventional affair at home, and deports himself as lord of all he | 

surveys, yet in that manner of mock humility which only those I 

long accustomed to this world and its many ways can successfully I 
affect. Irene a little above the average height, not fat but plump, is 1 

very beautiful in her pearl white dress of almost extreme decollete. 1 

Her manner was simple and unaffected, yet with that semi-haughty I 
air that is produced by many days of leadership and undisputed 
sway. But tonight many of the girls look as well as she. To de¬ 
scribe the costumes would be impossible. Just draw on your imagi- J 
nation for anything pretty that you will in dress—not jewels—and 1 
it was sure to be there, for who does not know that therein lies the I 
truth of the term “country jake”—the extreme overdoing of every- I 
thing. We have seen Peggy as she lingeringly takes leave of the 
home folks. How she slowly wends her way to the home of the 
Raymonds, and as she nears their dwelling she hears a firm footstep, I 






FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


29 


and to her surprise Jack Harsh walks beside her. Without a thought 
of the impression they will create they walk together, talking of 
Irene and Edward, and somehow each heart is strangely warmed and 
comforted by the presence and personality of the other. No wonder 
they so leisurely cover the short distance lying between them and 
the Raymonds. At last they knock for admission. Edward grandly 
opens the door, while Irene stands at his elbow, both prepared to 
extend to all comers that broad welcome which gives each guest a 
great sense of his own importance and yet deeply impresses him 
with the superior importance of his host. Why does “King Edward” 
falter, and look agape? He is amazed at this goddess who stands 
so simply, so grandly, and yet so modestly defiant before 
him. Irene is no less taken by surprise, both at Peggy’s appearance 
and its effect on Edward, but born to command she grasps the op¬ 
portunity to block Edward by recognizing Jack and Peggy as part¬ 
ners, and they to their own surprise willingly fall into the plan and 
do not even hint that they came in together by accident. 

One whose word can ne’er be questioned has said, “The Kingdom 
of Heaven is within you.” Could not the king of darkness as fit¬ 
tingly arise and say, “If you are mine my kingdom is within you?” 
Was not this, why Edward so cunningly and gracefully strove to 
drive for himself even slightly the wedge of Peggy’s respectful 
recognition? Was Jack’s pure clean manhood like salt on his lacer¬ 
ated character, that he should always desire immediately that which 
belongs to this young farmer lad? Be that as it may, he finds 
in Peggy no response at all, yet her resistance is so modest, natural 
and polite that he is completely baffled with all his superior worldly 
wisdom, and as the evening’s gaieties progress Edward finds him¬ 
self more on the rack to try to win some recognition than he has 
ever been in his life before a woman. Somehow all his old wiles 
seem to fall on wooden ears, so far as Peggy is concerned. As Ed- 


30 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


ward strives to press himself into Peggy’s favor Irene arouses to j 
greater effort to hold him all her own, and of course she and Edward 
being host and hostess of the affair, she succeeds in a measure. Re- j 
freshments are served and games begin. You of the “Barrens” know , 
what the old games are—“post office,” “needle’s eye,” and so forth, 
and incongruous as they may seem linked with the fine orchestra, j 
two short hours of the evening were devoted to these old-fashioned 
games. During the old game of “post office” a scene was enacted j 
which may have had to do with changing the current of the actors’ j 
lives. 

Jack, who had wisely followed every move of the two girls and : 
Edward, was filled with great pity for Irene as he saw her struggle j 
to hold Edward the mighty, and resolved to give her some private 
advice, so he chose her to deliver his letter. How pleased Irene looked 
that Jack had chosen her, but when alone with him some evil spirit 
seemed to possess her with a desire to taunt him. Maybe ’twas her 
wounded pride, for these were Jack’s first words: 

“Little one, why do you run after that city chap so much?” 

How beautiful Irene looks as with glowing cheek and flashing eye J 
she responds: “I do not need to. run after him. Edward is the only 
man who ever appreciated my ability, and he runs after me.” 

“Well,” says Jack, “unless I left my eyes at home, there is some 
one here tonight he would gladly exchange you for if he only knew 
how to go about it.” 

“Jack Harsh! You ignorant, impudent fellow! Did you just call 
me out here to insult me? You are too ignorant to know that it is 
only as host that Edward acts as he has tonight. I shall call him 
and tell him all you have said, and he shall put you out. ” 






FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


31 


“Oh, no, lady. King Edward will never put me out. Just get me 
my coat and hat and I will take myself away from your home, not 
only now, hut forever.” 

“Now, Jack, don’t act so silly, and spoil my party. You have 
always been a good brother to me, don’t act so mean now. Forgive 
my hasty words. I would be ashamed to tell him what you said. 
He might think me jealous.” 

“I only wish I were your brother. I would see that the dear boy 
left our neighborhood quickly.” 

“But suppose I love him, Jack?” 

“More the pity for you, child. He is not the man for a girl like 
you to tie to.” 

“Oh, you are only jealous. Suppose he loves me? And you would 
break his heart.” 

“Have no fear. If I judge rightly he only loves one being enough 
for his heart to be much affected.” 

“Who? Me?” 

“Lord, no! His own sweet self. Peggy is of the same opinion 
as I.” 

“Oh, you and Peggy are both jealous—you of me, Peggy of Ed¬ 
ward. When Edward and I are married we will give you and Peggy 
a start in life, if you will love each other and let us alone.” 

“Are you and Edward engaged?” 

“'Well, if we are not formally engaged, we have a pretty clear 
understanding between us.” 

“I see. With how many women do you suppose he has the same 
understanding? I tell you, Irene, you are on slippery ground. I do 
wish you were more like Peggy, and could see through all his arts 
•and shams.” 

“Oh, you expect every one to be ignorant like yourself.” 



32 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


“Irene, be careful you do not pay too dear for your knowledge. 
Sometimes, when folks get enlightened, they wish in vain they could 
go back to the good old ignorant ways.” 

With this Jack goes in and Edward is chosen to bring Irene her 
letter, which he does as quickly and neatly as he can to finish it up 
politely, for this is his first chance to get a single word alone with 
Peggy, and her very indifference makes him on fire to get busy and 
test his ability on her. As Irene enters the parlor and announces j 
that Miss Strong is chosen to deliver Mr. Schilling’s letter, Peggy 
straightens, hesitates, flushes. As the two girls gaze into each 
other’s very souls, Peggy’s look of quiet, dignified scorn is met by 
Irene’s look of surprised defeat, amounting to almost panic, and 
into Jack’s heart is suddenly born a deep desire to win the love of 
Peggy. Every one thought Peggy was not going, but she quietly 
arose and moved toward the post office door, saying, “This is indeed 
tiresome. Think of something else to do, while I go and tell Mr. 
Schilling that I have no letter to deliver, and do not care to receive 
one tonight.” With that she is gone, and Jack, quick to fill the 
breach, asks the orchestra to play. How manly he suddenly looks 
to Irene. She puts forth every effort to entertain him, but he is j 
alert to see the return of Peggy, and while he is kindness itself to 
Irene, he scarcely knows what she is saying to him. 

Let us peep into the post office at Peggy and Edward. As Peggy 
enters, erect and self-possessed, he assumes his most pleasing man¬ 
ner and advances to meet her expecting to claim his letter (a kiss), 
but her first word stops him and holds him to the spot on which he 
stands. He dare not approach her, any more than if she were a 
berg of ice or a flame of fire. ’Tis not her words, but the woman 
behind them. She simply says: “Mr. Schilling, the letter I bring is 
the information that the game of post office is ended, and even now 



FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


33 


• different arrangements are being made in the parlor,” and she turns 
! to go. 

Edward sums up courage enough to say, “Miss Strong, please 
stop long enough to tell me why you detest me so, and why my 
presence always annoys you so much.” 

As she stands with her hand on the knob of the half open door 
she turns and looks him square in the eye, and as naturally as life 
itself lifts a plump hand whose forefinger extended seems like an 
arrow to pierce his very soul. She utters in a calm, firm voice just 
three words which make the blood drop from his face like mercury 
in the glass during a severe blizzard—“'Your PAST LIFE.” 

Only two in the parlor notice when they enter that Edward is in 
almost a state of collapse, and that Peggy is so deeply agitated 
that she seems almost on the verge of brainstorm as she reasons 
thus: “What if Mr. Schilling should insist I explain. What could 
I say? I really know very little of him, and yet—” and in her 
mind a real chain of circumstantial evidence that told her very much 
went like a storm through her brain. 

As for Edward, he never for a moment doubted that she knew it 
all. He even felt that she somehow knew the contents of the letters 
in his pocket, though he carefully guarded them by always carrying 
them with him, and had written their author again and again, “I 
ahvays carry your dear letters next to my heart,” but carefully left 
off telling why. 

As for Irene, her idea was that Peggy had somehow stolen both 
Jack and Edward, and that the ache of disappointment in her heart 
and throat was due to Peggy’s duplicity. Consequently she made 
no self reproach or examination. As for Jack, the icy tone as well 
as the two words, “past life” had caught his quick ear along with 
the perceptible agitation of the two actors, consequently his curi- 




34 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


osity was on fire. He made haste to secure Peggy’s consent to ac¬ 
company her home, and although a few selections by the orchestra 
brought the party to a graceful close, he felt bored that it was so 
slow, and like a bird whose fetters are suddenly broken, when it was 
over and the keen night air brushed his cheek as he and Peggy 
started for her home, with her hand resting lightly but naturally 
on his arm. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE HOSPITAL, DR. OAKS AND THE TRIP HOME. 

’Tis March. Waning March, at that. How he shakes the white 
down in the air as his parting salute! Not a young heart in the 
“Barrens” can really believe that soon April showers and flowers will 
make their debut. Not so in an old rambling brick along the river in 
the city of Indianapolis, where a heartbroken, weary girl sits dream¬ 
ing of the past and wondering of the future. This girl we already 
know as Marie Jones. We find her sitting in the public ward of the 
the City Hospital, where kind hands have skilfully cared for her 
through a long siege of delirious illness. Big, noble, generous Dr. 
Oakes yesterday morning told her a story of motherhood that comes 
very near her life, and she has told him all her past and given him 
permission to go to Father Schilling and get Edward’s address and 
write him all that is pending, but now she feels that she cannot let 
dear old mother back on the farm know all. Now she wishes that 
on that fateful night of the new year she had killed Edward. Now 
she wishes he were here, and blind motherhood makes her feel that 
could she reason with him in the name of another he would heed. 





FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


35 


Still she dreams on down the dim aisle of the future. Sometimes, 
though she is so weak and pale and sick, her face is rosy with hope 
as some ague dream takes form and she sees a cosy cottage home, 
such as was hers a short time ago, and in it a rosy, bouncing baby 
boy, and her mind pictures a handsome, stalwart, dark man as he 
gracefully enters the door and greets the babe, whose joy at his com¬ 
ing knows no bounds. Her own greeting of quiet love is in the pic¬ 
ture. She has all her former household goods. They seem so won- 
drously familiar she seems almost able to touch them, when the 
nurse enters and hands her a letter. How she trembles at sight of 
the dear, familiar hand. She opens and reads as follows: 

“Ora, Ind., March 25, 19— 

My Dear Marie I was very much surprised at you letting Dr. 
Oaks tell me what I should) have heard from your "own lips. Only 
think how you would like me to tell to some outsider our lives as 
you have told thereto him. I suppose next you will even confide in 
the police. Such unfaithfulness I cannot forgive or forget, and a 
woman who confides in a strange man rather than in him who should 
be her husband can never become my wife. I suppose you have even 
told your mother, so as to worry her as well as I. But though you 
have done all you can to worry me, I will still give you the chance 
to choose between two alternatives—You can go to Hope House 
until you are well and strong, and we will go on as of old, or you 
can go to a private hospital I know and be fitted up all right. But 
as for a speedy marriage, that I cannot give, since you are so bold 
as to confide in a strange man. I will be at home shortly. Try to 
decide by the time I arrive which course you desire to take. I favor 
the private hospital plan. You can be very grateful to me that I 
allow you to choose, since you took such pains to expose me. The 
leading girl of this part, and to my mind the queen of all women I 



36 fresh from the barrens 

ever knew, pointed the finger of scorn at me last night when I at¬ 
tempted to be sociable, and said she hated me because of my past 
life” When I think of it and realize that you are the cause of >tall 
I feel that you deserve abandonment, but if you are humble and true 
from now on I will not only forgive you, but do for y ou 38 J sa [ o 
Now if you take the private hospital plan no one except those to 
whom you have blowed yourself need ever know, whereas the mother¬ 
hood plan would mean lots of hard work and expense. 

“Yours until I come, 

“Your injured lover, 


Too stunned for anger and too blind for despair, Mane sat gazing 
out at the storm until the nurse came and gently prepared her for 
the night and put her to bed, where, heartsick, weary and disap¬ 
pointed as she was, nature, God’s great balm of healing, caused her 
to sleep next day until late in the morning, when a deep, rich, 
familiar voice sounded through the hall and she opened her eyes to 
see the sunlight streaming through the window and to meet a pair 
of black eyes which assumed a great look of injury. 


Much contempt as we feel in our hearts for Edward Schilling, 
and much as we feel that he deserves to die for his deceit and treach¬ 
ery, that much must every true heart pity poor, blind, ignorant 
Marie. By dinner she is fully convinced that what Edward advises 
is best for all concerned, and gets herself ready for the private 
hospital. She does not even ask who keeps it or where it is located, 
but at four she is ready. How the hours drag! But at eight Ed¬ 
ward drives up in a closed cab to get his little girl who has given 
him her word with their hands on the Bible that as atonement for 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


37 


wliat she has already so unfaithfully done she will not be seen 
again until she is, as he says, free. 

Now comes her first real willful lie. She tells the hospital staff 
that she is going home to mother, and that Mr. Schilling is to ac¬ 
company her. Miss Grace, her nurse, insists on accompanying her to 
the train, for somehow she fears this gallant young hero, who is so 
meekly penitent that she “thinks he doth protest too much.” 
Schilling exclaims, as they alight at the station, “Nurse, shall I get 
you a ticket to Royal Center? Have you the time to accompany 
us?” 

Nurse Grace makes answer, “No, I must get back to my work, 
but would enjoy going with you as far as the little depot.” How 
blind one of long experience can be, and Nurse Grace never sees the 
blood mount for an instant to his face as he turns from her and 
Marie to buy the tickets. But she does see his bland smile when he 
turns again with three tickets in his hand, two for Royal Center, 
Marie’s old home, and one for Nurse Grace to go with them as far as 
Tipton, and exclaims, “You will please accept this round trip ticket 
for Tipton. You will then have gone half way home with my poor 
Mnrie. I feel I owe it to you and her as part of my atonement.” 

Marie is so astonished that she exclaims, “Really, Edward-” 

But meeting his eye she finishes, “you are so kind”—and chokes and 
her eyes fill with tears, which Nurse Grace mistakes for signs of 
great gratitude. Had Edward not stopped her the astonished ears 
of Nurse Grace would have heard her say—“Really, Edward, what 
do you mean? You know what you said we were going to do.” 
But all the way to Tipton she wonders, “Can it be possible he will 
take me home and make me his wife? And do I need to tell mother 
all, or can I spare her the worry ?” Many wonderings of like nature 
fill her brain, and before she is aware of the distance they have 
come she hears the call “Tipton,” and Nurse Grace is bidding them 



38 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


good-bye and is gone, and they are alone again on the rapidly mov¬ 
ing train. Edward is his old self again, and is so kindly telling her 
the old story about being his wife in God’s sight and that they are 
really going home together to tell mother that they have been mar¬ 
ried for over one short, happy year, but wanted to surprise her, and 
could not get away before. 

‘‘Edward, I cannot go to MOTHER’S house and be as your wife 
and know it is untrue,” says Marie. 

Edward is again the injured as he exclaims, “So you want to 
throw me down, do you, for the sake of a little piece of paper fixed 
by man? Do you not believe God counts us one, or do you pin your 
faith on man? You say more about Christ than I do, yet you seem 
to have less faith in Him than I do in this case, and that man-made 
license is more to you than His sanction. Besides, if you insist on 
that we can get it later. Should we have a wedding and all that 
what would you tell mother on some other lines ? Of course I really 
intended for us to get off at the little depot, but when Nurse Grace 
asked to accompany us there I was compelled to change our plan 
and do it quickly, and since you told so much at the hospital, I de¬ 
cided it necessary to first make a trip to mother’s as man and wife, 
(which we really are), then I will go back to work in a few days, 
and you can follow me. I will meet you at the train and take you 
to the hospital, and everything will go well. But if you are de¬ 
termined to be stubborn, we are both doomed to shame which I cannot 
avert without your willing help. But do as you like.” 

Marie’s thoughts ran on wildly, and, as usual, she became con¬ 
vinced that Edward was right, and that at all cost she would do just 
as he said, then he could not blame her for telling Dr. Oaks. So 
when the train pulled up at Royal Center she was ready for her part 
of the deception at mother’s—so ready that she really felt herself 
to be Mrs. Schilling. How wildly she enjoyed the ride out to 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


39 


mother’s behind the fresh, lively stepping team which Edward pro¬ 
cured at the livery barn, for surely if Edward would spare her like 
this he would do all right later. 


CHAPTER X. 

AT HOME TOGETHER. 

At last they are at home, and Marie in mother’s arms. Father 
i3 at the barn and the children are in bed, and breakfast is burning, 
but mother and Marie, oblivious of that fact, weep hysterically in 
each other’s arms, until Edward is alarmed lest Marie out with the 
whole truth. He goes and gently takes her arms from around 
mother, lays them around his own neck, sits down, takes her on his 
gently forces her head on his shoulder, and calmly exclaims: 
“Why, mother, I had no idea my little wife was so homesick or I 
should not have asked her to wait so long in order that I, too, might 
come HOME. I suppose to her our short year and a half of married 
life has been very tiresome at times, but to me it has been so short 
and sweet, I never dreamed she was so HOMESICK”—and in this 
strain he ran on about how <( we city chaps see so much sin and 
temptation about us that we are very careful of our wives when we 
marry for love,” until from sheer astonishment Marie was calm. 

She arose from his knee and went up to see the children and 
awaken them, and to throw herself across the bed in her old room 
and cry herself to sleep to see the same girl Marie who used to toss 
about in that bed and long for the city she had heard so much 
about, and thus Edward finds her when breakfast is ready—fast 
asleep, but sobs shaking her even as she sleeps. Who can, let him 


40 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


stand up and answer: “Wliy does he not follow the impulse of pity 
that surges through his very soul for her as he sees her thus?” She 
has never sinned except at his solicitation, she is all his now and as 
wax in his hands. But she hath never forgiveness from him to whom 
she unlawfully gives that priceless jewel—Girlhood, even should she 
be led to the marriage altar, which is rare. She is always under the 
ban of suspicion, and that old grudge forever stands. But pity does 
lead him to quietly leave the room and tell mother she is sleeping 
and is tired, and has not been well for some time, and that he thinks 
the rest in her old room and in the old bed will do her more good 
than food, so she sleeps the day away. Mother never guesses that 
her girl who plays for them so nicely and sings the old church 
songs so sweetly once more sits all night stern and grim and clothed 
by the window of her old room, defying Edward to come near her, 
lest she call mother and tell all, for the dear old home must not be 
defiled. 

And so the days and nights go by. By day she is Mrs. Schilling; 
by night she is Marie Jones as she has not been for almost two 
long, weary years. Oh, the pity that she can not call back that lost 
but priceless crown—Girlhood! If she could, how she would guard 
it, now that too late she knows its worth; and if she could how she 
would cling to home and the dear old room, but as she sits all night 
wide-eyed and watchful, guarding the ghost of the past, the heavy 
breathing of the occupant of the old bed seems to repeat again and 
again in her ears the awful word—“nevermore”—“nevermore”—until, 
sick at heart and weary of limb and with tearless eyes, she realizes 
that to every girl is given when born a priceless, fragile little dove, 
that when once given wing can never be recalled, even though given 
the golden ring of holy wedlock at the church altar, with many 
beautiful bridesmaids in attendance, and though he who gives it 
flight is all loving respect and attention, it cannot return. But if 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


41 


illegal is the hand that lifts the door, the dove only comes on 
memory’s wing, flapping like a bat on a windy, dark night, crawling, 
uncanny, unwelcome and nerve racking and unwanted. Once at 
liberty it can never be caged again, even when surrounded by hus¬ 
band, home and children, which is the only possible balm for its 
flight. To her comes moments of longing as memory drags out the 
photograph of a girl just budding into womanhood, with a mother’s 
loving hand uplifted in gentle but firm admonition—“Thou shalt 
not,” and with the quickened eye of motherhood she wonders why 
she chafed under the restraint which made it possible for mother to 
be the beloved wife and mother she now is—and with a bound she 
passes from memory to the blessed reality in the presence of him 
who enters hungry, expectant, capable and content with all that 
wife, home and children mean to him. 

In her mother Marie recognizes this picture fulfilled. She does 
not need to ask mother if she and father ever passed through her 
own and Edward’s experience. The old marriage license on the wall, 
yellow with age, explains it all to her now, and reveals the awful 
truth that for her there can never be a life like mother’s, but she 
determines she will not, whatever the cost, defile the old home. 

How gladly she hears Edward say at the end of one weary week 
that he must go back to business. How she shudders as mother so 
lovingly insists that he stay longer, and asks her to join in the plea. 
How his gentle chuckling smile enrages her and nerves her to say. 
“No, I really think it best that he go back, but I shall stay a while 
longer myself.” 

Mother is astonished, and thinks her a very undutiful wife, and 
is more kind and careful of poor Edward after that. She lectures 
Marie freely on her duty as wife, until Edward is so nervous lest she 




42 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


tell all that lie seriously considers asking her to go back with him, 
but finally decides to risk her following, lest his future plans fail, 
and so he returned alone, to find a letter from Irene awaiting him. 


CHAPTER XI. 

MARIE AT HOME ALONE AND HER JOURNEY BACK TO THE CITY. 

How the days sped by now that Edward had gone and Marie 
could crawl into the dear old bed and cry herself to sleep—such sleep 
as she had not known since she left home—and the night afforded 
her shelter from mother’s questions, for somehow into mothers heart 
has come some vague wonderings, a mysterious something that she 
can not explain—a something which clouds the joy of her girl’s visit, 
and makes it so very close to pain. But try as she will, that elusive 
something is always on the wing, just beyond her grasp, yet ever 
near enough to make her heart ache more and more. 

It is the last day, and tomorrow Marie goes. Mother can no 
longer stand this nameless pain, and speaks thus: 

“Marie, child, I love you so. I wish you need not go, but was a 
girl again at home with me. I love your husband, but you are so 
changed that I scarce know which your visit has given me most of— 
joy or pain. If you understand will you explain? I ought to know 
and share your joy or sorrow. Can I help you? I know, my child, 
you are exceedingly unhappy. If I guess aright, before many months’ 
my girl will know a mother’s love. Surely that is not your grief. 
When father and I awaited your coming I well remember how we 
counted the weeks, days and hours, and how I showed father each 
tiny garment which you should wear, and at your first plaintive cry 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


43 


our hearts were hermetically sealed as one, and you in the center. 
I know that father has always been more careful of me because I 
welcomed motherhood. Your husband will be the same. I fear you 
are making a great mistake, my dear. Tell me all about it and let 
me help you.” 

For five long, speechless minutes a great torrent of unchecked 
tears pour from Marie’s eyes on mother’s shoulder. Mother gently 
raises Marie’s head and says, as she tries to look into her soul: 

“And is it so terrible to be a wife and mother ? I did not find it 
so. ’Tis true I know that when once a wife all the courts of all the 
lands, and even the great God Himself cannot make you a girl again, 
and while sometimes I see for a moment the ghost of my girlhood 
I find that wife and motherhood are sweeter far than that. And 
surely my girl is not one of those who would marry Edward for 
money and then prefer a dog to a sweet bouncing, loving babe. We 
tried to bring you up right, father and I, and now you shame us, 
just because God is sending His choicest earthly blessing—mother¬ 
hood. 

There are no tears now. With wide, defiant eyes Marie lifts a 
warning hand and in tones of authority says, “Hush, mother! You 
don’t know what you say. If I had married Charley instead of 
going to the city I would feel no doubt just as you do. You brought 
me up right, it is very true, but you let me go to that seething 
whirlpool, the city, at the solicitation of a stranger, as you must 
admit Edward to be to you even now. I went there as ignorant of 
city life and its ways as you yourself are this moment. I knew only 
the man by whose name you call me. Now I come back to you for 
a short while, not the Marie of old, but part of that seething, rest¬ 
less mob. I cannot explain to you—you could not understand if I 
tried. That you are not satisfied with the result is apparent. That 
I am more disappointed than you is only too terribly true. That it 



u 


FRESH FROM THE BARREN'S 


is too late for a remedy is also true. As you told me, all the courts ^ 
of all the lands, and even the great God Himself could not make ME 
a girl again. It is too late for me—I have the fever of restlessness, 
and I see no cure. But guard the other children. Teach them that, 
however it may seem, I am very unhappy, and that they must be¬ 
ware of strangers, and love and cling to the old home, and the old 
ways! Encourage them to love and marry near home—some one 
they have always known, and to lead simple, sincere lives, for in our 
lives, mine and Edward’s, there is no peace nor rest at all.” 

“Child, you frighten me. Do you love each other ?” 

“Oh, in a way, yes; but not as you and father love, and not as I 
loved Charley, and love him even yet, if I might let love have its way. 

I might have won him then, and we would have been as happy to¬ 
gether as he and Katy now are.” 

“But, Marie, you used to sing in the choir, teach in the Sunday 
school, work in the League, and be a model Christian. Are you not 
living that way now?” 

“Mother, you let me go, knowing only Edward. He has no use 
for Jesus Christ or any of His principles. I let him map out my life 
and now I am as far from Christ as he is. I know all the places of 
amusement and many of the people who go that way. I do not 
know one Christian or one church in Indianapolis, and now I have 
no inclination to try. In fact the life I must lead with Edward 
leaves me no chance, for really w T e have no time oi room for Christ.” 

At the feet of Mother Jones has fallen one tiny pin-feather from 
the great bird of truth, and in her distress she walks the floor with 
face pale and drawn, wringing her hands and moaning, “My God! 
my child, why did I let her go? I can never be Uappy again unless 
you come back to Christ. You shall not go until you do—my child; 
my child! I knew something was wrong, but never dreamed you 
had lost out with Him, or that Edward was an unbeliever. He always 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


45 


shows such respect for Christ when here. Oh, it cannot be! it can¬ 
not be.” 

Never before has Mother Jones heard that low, mellow, mocking 
laugh which greets her ears from Marie as she says, “All right, 
mother; doubt me if you will. But this I ask—do not be taken in 
again by a stranger for one of your children until you are satisfied 
with the results of having done so with me. And furthermore, when 
have you heard Edward pray, or say anything that would indicate 
that he was a Christian or desired to be? Now, mother, don’t be 
foolish, but consider the results in my case, and save yourself heart¬ 
ache for the rest. I might tell you more, but you are so terribly 
distressed over what I have told, which is not a beginning of what 
I might tell, and if you worry so even when you only half believe 
what I say, why prolong our talk? Only see that none of the other 
children share my fate. Tell them what you will, but keep them at 
home and warn them of strangers. Now, don’t worry for me; I am 
what I am, and I see no remedy at present. Maybe later God will 
open some door of mercy when I feel free to enter. Now I must 
prepare for my trip back, unless you say for me to have done with 
Edward and remain at home, which I will do if you say so. Do you 
think that would help me to be a Christian?” 

Poor Mother Jones! In her face is wide-eyed terror, and she 
cries: “Oh, my child! Do you think I would part you and your hus¬ 
band? And what has my poor girl come to? Think of the little life 
for which you are responsible. Have you no sense of its honor or 
right ? Why did you take a man you did not love ? Oh! my child, 
my child! What have I done that such sorrow should be mine? 
What sort of home must you make for your husband? I can surely 
never be happy again. And, child, if I made a mistake by letting 
you go it was my head, and not my heart. I truly meant it for 
your advancement.” Her speech was accompanied by such evidences 


46 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


of distress, and so strikingly resembled the distress under which 
Marie herself had so often labored, that she had no heart to prolong 
the conversation, and for sheer pity said: 

“Oh, well, mother, forget this talk. I may have put things a 
little strong for you, but you know how to pray, do you not? So 
take all your troubles to Him, who, as I remember, is said not to 
forget even the sparrow when it falls, and I may yet get to be a 
good woman. Now I must pack my trunk for my return trip.” 

“Child, why do you not say for my trip home? I always speak 
that way. It would make you better.” 

“All right, mother. Now listen. I must now prepare to go home. 
But mother, what is home?” 

Before Mother Jones could make answer Marie abruptly left the 
room, went up to her old room, closed and locked the door, and for 
the last time threw herself across her own pure, clean bed and cried 
as if her heart would break. For several weary hours she lay 
thus, weeping hysterically, then dry-eyed and defiant, contemplating 
all that she had passed through and all that was before. Finally 
Mother Jones, with wildly beating heart, tapped timidly on her door 
to tell her that the evening meal was ready. Marie hastily washed 
her swollen face and went down to supper, and for the very last 
time on this earth the Joneses made an unbroken family around 
the old congenial board. All thought Marie’s grief pure sorrow at 
taking leave from them, and made a special effort to make her know 
they loved her. As is always the case when a spark of the genuine 
is still alive, their kindness stung her far more than mother’s words 
of rebuke, for in her heart she failed to see herself justly worthy of 
either. Supper ended, she and mother went up together while she 
packed her trunk, for at 12:30 tonight she must leave for Indian¬ 
apolis and Edward. Neither she nor her mother cared to resume the 
conversation we have already recorded. Both were conscious of the 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


47 


pitifully crushed and bleeding form of the little dove of peace that 
lay stone dead between them. Shift as they might, it was there. 
Any effort to avoid it only seemed to make it swell and assume 
gigantic proportions, but ’twas ever there, terribly there. Even 
when mother sought her own room to get a little rest before train 
time, still for them its bloated form filled all the space between 
them, until both were glad when the time came for Father Jones to 
accompany her to the train, as both hoped then to at least forget its 
putrid presence, but to their horror as distance came between them 
its bloated body increased until all the space was filled, and when 
Marie arrived at the little depot on Massachusetts Avenue in In¬ 
dianapolis, where Edward met her with closed cab, even if the hour 
was 3:30 a. m., she was almost hysterical, and many spasmodic 
plans had been formed in her brain, only to be dismissed as utterly 
impossible. Then Edward met her so blithely, and helped her to 
alight, saying: “Here comes my pretty. I was afraid you would not 
come. I felt jealous of your mother, and no husband ever was so 
anxious to get hold of his little wife again as I of you. As the 
train pulled in I was panic-stricken lest my dear lady would not 
come. You never looked so sweet to me in all your life before. I 
think when you get out of the hospital I shall make you my really 
wife. How I wish you were now!” And with such soft words he 
won her to be as clay in the potter’s hands. 

Said she, “Edward, why can we not now go and marry? Mother 
gave me such a talk about my duty to you that I feel I owe it to 
you and our child to insist we marry. Of course mother never 
dreamed the real truth, but was trying to teach me how to be a 
good, true and dutiful wife. Let us go and really marry and save 
our child.” 

Just for the same reason that a butcher will not arouse antag¬ 
onism in the animal he intends to slaughter, Edward answers softly. 


43 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


“Well, dear, that may be best. But” (opening the door of the cab 
and lifting her in) “let us take our own time to consider. You look so 
ill, I want you to go to the home of this friend of mine for treat¬ 
ment for a while, any way,” and so saying he entered and closed the 
cab door, drew the blinds, and prepared after his manner to make 
himself at home, having already given the cabby a street and num¬ 
ber whose exceeding respectability forbids us to mention it. The 
cabby knew from long experience the game that was on. He also 
knew that there was no need to hurry, so long as he escaped the 
light of active day. So for an hour, to use Edward’s own term, they 
“visited as in old times.” And God’s busy child, Nature, to hide 
the scene from the pure white angels, spread a deep, dark cloud over 
all the landscape, and shed great torrents of tears, until the streets 
flowed like-a river. The cabby, indifferent to it all, softly swearing, 
turned up the collar of his raincoat, pulled down his sou’wester, and 
plodded on in what he only knew as a drenching rain, but well he 
knew his passenger. Once in a storm like this he had speeded up 
his team, only to receive a curse and a short fee from Sir Edward, 
and the advice that he, by his hurry, had made the trip of no avail; 
and another time he remembered having received double pay for 
taking plenty of time, and even getting lost on the way, so that the 
drive was prolonged. So he plodded on, curious to know what was 
on, but “mum,” as all cabbies must be. At last they arrive at the 
house of Edward’s “friend,” and Marie is given her room. Edward 
seems so loth to leave her that she really half dreams again that 
he loves her, and does not realize that he has artfully drawn her out 
that he may know if any are aware of her coming to this place. 
When he leaves he knows all that has passed between her and 
mother, her spasmodic resolves—in short, he knows all. His nimble 
brain has it all fixed out. He goes to the post office and writes to 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


49 


her, dating his letter the day she was to return, and sends the letter 
in care of her mother. The letter runs: 

‘‘Dear Marie—If you are so homesick, prolong your visit for an¬ 
other week. I must be out of town for a few days anyway, so you 
might linger a little longer if you like. I am sorry I kept you away 
so long, and as atonement will force myself to be content another 
week. Then bring your mother or some of the family with you to 
stay until you are strong. Of course I shall be more than glad when 
you are here again. Yours in love, Edward.” 

Having posted his lie he went to his club to get an hour or two 
of sleep, chuckling to himself at what he chose to call his neat job. 

How peacefully sleeps the arch-schemer! He really feels that at 
last he is master of the whole situation. His nap taken, he goes 
about the morning duties at the store with more than his usual 
suavity. How the girls’ hearts beat high, with various avenues of 
hope-some that they are honestly appreciated, and are thereby led 
to double their efforts, others that their beauty has won for them 
some valuable recognition; they of course lag in the traces, feeling 
their “face is their fortune.” So they with their dreams, the others 
with their work, are very happy for a day. By closing time gossip 
has it fairly well circulated that Marie is coming back before long, 
and that is supposed to be his source of joy. Since those with the 
fortunate faces outnumber the workers, a great bee of gossip and 
consternation buzzes in the cloak room as they prepare to go home. 
Some say she flaunts herself on him, and the workers say he loves 
her, and in their opinion he has a perfect right to do so—and all file 
out at the door, strangely nettled, considering their peaceful day. 



50 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


CHAPTER XII. 


marie at the hospital. 


After the theatre if you come with me we will follow a physi- 

cally well-built, dark young man out, still out, on a north bound 
car. 

What have we lost him? Yes, he alighted back there, and as the 
street light is at the next corner it is no use you trying to follow 
him but if you could you would find him in a large, handsomely 
built mansmn, presided over by a handsome, respectable widow of 
middle age who owns the house, and she will make you “bite the 

J“ ‘, y °" < * uestl " n the respectability of her establishment. 
Nevertheless Edward is there, and so is Marie. How graciously the 

7' “^^ ?T d l. What can the y be P lanni "g in this elegantly 
respectable parlor? Listen as we will we cannot hear a word, but 

appearances say they are bargaining. Where is Marie? Up in her 
room, which is the most secluded of the whole mansion. Really she 

tlmtT I 6 " 77 t0day ’ aDd iS n0t aWare that Edward is here or 
that he planned to come so soon. Nevertheless, some subtle influ- 

ence sends a restless spirit surging through her soul which will not 

be denied but seems to force her to arise from her bed and go softly 

out and down the hall. Suddenly she decides a drink of cold water 

“ WLat 8hC ne f d3 - At the same moment a transom reveals to he 
weary eyes a dim light down stairs, which in the ignorance of her 
surroundmgs she concludes is the bath room. Hither she goes in her 
night dress seeking only a “cup of cold water,” her bare ffet making 

ri::;tzjri **^ 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


51 


saying, “Oh, well, give me a check. You know you have me in a 
corner; but really she isn’t' worth it.” So absorbed are the occu¬ 
pants of the room that they fail to see or hear Marie as she opens 
v a tiny crack of the door and watches Edward as he counts out five 
fifty dollar bills and writes a check for as much more. Then the 
widow says, in cold even tones, “This is only five hundred dollars. 
Suppose she dies in the operation; what of the other five hundred. 
You know the risk I take as well as yourself. You also know how 
few survive such an ordeal as she must pass through. How do I 
know that if she dies you will not refuse to pay the rest?” 

I “Madame, are you not aware that she is worth more to me dead 
than living? If she dies, I will not only pay you the extra five hun- 
| dred, but add five hundred to it; if she lives you can bargain with 
Madame Molly for any extra you get.” 

“What! risk prison for a few extra hundred? I had rather you 
paid it.” 

“How prudent you grow. You have heard what I have to say. 
I make good my word—nothing more. But come, as we are both in 
j the same boat, and both so EMINENTLY R.ESPECTABLE, let us 
|i not quarrel, but be co-workers on the job. You might be glad some¬ 
where of my friendship, and I am truly glad just now of yours. I 
feel safe in your hands, as you, too, would have much to lose, and I 
would gladly pay you all, only I am afraid you might let her escape, 
and I must have her disposed of in some way. By the way, I have 
another country girl on my staff. I got her letter yesterday, and as 
soon as I get this lady nicely attended to I mean to send for her and 
> give her as near Marie’s old position as she will accept. She seems 
to be deeply smitten with me, which gives me great opportunity to 
play at her expense. 

An old, musty, sleeping memory seemed to suddenly spring in the 
widow, and she says with some spirit, “Sir, you make me sick. 




52 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


Smitten with you! Dear me! When she really knows your slimy 
self don’t you think she will despise you with all her being?” 

“Oh, no; not at all. This girl Marie was as innocent and pure as 
the God she sometimes prates about could make her. Look what j 
she is enduring for me now. Think of the suffering she must endure 
before she gets out of all the tangle I have gotten her into. Do you 
see her hate me? Not at all. She sticks the closer to me, and is 
more and more in terror of losing me, and makes herself believe I 
will some day marry her and give her a wife’s place, when if she 
had one grain of sense she would know of a surety that I would 
never have a wife like her.” <j 

“I don’t see why you should not marry her. You say yourself I 
she came to you pure. If she is at fault, where are you? If she is 
unfit to be your wife, whose husband are you fit to be? I suppose ! 
you think, since you come so clean to the marriage altar, that when 
you get ready to marry the Great and Mighty God will order silence i 
in heaven while He with bated breath will think into existence a 
lovely, pure, snow-white angel with golden wings, whose sole re- | 
sponsibility will be to meekly and silently come to earth and to I 
your church, where you stand robed and expectant at the altar j 
awaiting her. You will then make her your lawful and dutiful wife. 
Furthermore, you will need no one to play the wedding march as 
she glides through the air and down to you, but the sister angels 
will strike up a wedding march oi their own composition, which will 
echo and murmur and float through all the world, thereby announcing ; 
that one so just and pure as you has at last found one worthy of j 
his heart, home and name. Or will you order Him to send her a few' 
weeks before the wedding to weep at the altar for your coming, and ! 
that you can go and test her at your leisure, lest one so worthy as | 
you should be deceived at last, for which cause the heavenly choir I 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


53 


would doubtless pour forth through all eternity songs of lamenta¬ 
tion?” 

“Oh, shut up. You make me blue. Now you have a good 
chunk of my cash and my check for more, you turn in and lecture 
me on morals. Who are you, anyway? How came your husband to 
leave you? Would you enjoy telling?” 

“I certainly am not ashamed to tell YOU anything. Now listen;” 
(For a brief space the ghost of the girl that was returns and with 
finger lifted in scorn she almost hisses at him). “He went, sir, 
chiefly because in an unguarded hour my ignorance caused me to 
allow him to open the door of the cage of my life in which slept an 
innocent half-fledged dove called purity, which he dragged forth and 
wantonly destroyed, and though later his CONSCIENCE drove him 
to make me his wife he never ceased to taunt me of my weakness. 
Still all might have ended well, but I, who had been so unwise once, 
did many silly things to cause him to seriously doubt me, when I 
should have been striving to build my character strong and atone 
for my part of the mistake of the past. Finally he considered me 
unbearable and deserted me, leaving me money, sure enough; also 
leaving me to my own weakness and misery.” 

“But does he not visit you occasionally? And if you are so mis¬ 
erable why did you do those things? Maybe if you had been good 
and true he would be with you still. He surely cares for you or he 
would not come here. I am quite sure if I ever get rid of some 
folks up stairs I won’t bother to run back to them.” 

“I did it all, sir, for the same reason that I am a puppet in your 
hands to help you in this dirty business of yours. If I stop to 
reason I know no good can come of this job, and that Marie will 
more than likely die—that you will probably see to it that she does, 
and that I will have great trouble for my part in it all. But I feel 
that you will be compelled to do all that you can to spare me, and I 


54 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


feel that I want the money, and I felt long ago that which I did not 
understand as a girl, but to which I yielded at. my lover’s solicita¬ 
tion; when too late I felt sorry; when I looked around for some law 
of compensation I felt that to be his wife would be ample; when the 
lash of feeling undeceived me I felt the power of the desire of money 
and the things which, if lavishly spent, it would bring, and on down 
I have tried all the arts of feeling, even to seeking peace with the 
Great God, and I really felt that which I believe would have healed 
all but the scars of my life’s diseases, but those who guided my 
seeking spoke feelingly about feeling, and as my feelings had oc¬ 
cupied the throne of my heart and life I gave them full swing. No 
one told me until too late that feeling was an unruly child, and must 
never be allowed to even open the heart’s door unless fastened by 
strong leashes to its older brothers, Reason and Wisdom, and that 
is why you see me here tonight, the wreck of all that I might have 
been, so meshed in the web of self-deception that I do not even feel 
guilty, but pity myself with all my heart, and have not for a long, 
long time felt I was to blame for anything, and feel that I am only 
a puppet in your hands, doing your bidding, and if aught goes wrong 
I feel that you are all to blame, and should you attempt to let 
trouble come to my door I would feel perfectly justified, without 
taking the trouble to wrap it up, to send it uncovered back to you ” 

So unexpectedly did she glide back to the occasion of their con¬ 
ference that of sheer surprise Edward answers: “I feel that you are 
one of the devil’s very own, and could dare to undertake anything 
no matter how black.” 6 

“But you only feel. You do not know; and besides, since you 
only feel, you will not get serious about it until too late. Don’t you 
feel that you had better go home now for this time. Your intended 
wife has no doubt been asleep some time.” 

‘ I guess by your permission I will tiptoe up and see. Better put 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


55 


J on my coat. She might ask what I had been doing here so long. 
You see I am pretty wise.” 

v As the widow helps him don his coat she asks: “Is it wisdom 
that tells you you are wise, or feeling?” 

With wildly beating heart Marie flies up the stairs and once in 
her room she quickly locks the door and is struggling for breath 
when Edward tries the knob, then so softly calls, “Marie, wake up, 
dear.” She feels that she ought to confront him with all she has 
heard and order him away, but instead she goes to bed prepared to 
'* feign sleep should he get in, more afraid of him than she has ever 
been of any living creature. So by the time he goes down stairs for 
the key and comes back and enters the room she is so near fainted 
that she easily feigns sleep. After lingering for awhile, printing 
false kisses on her forehead and trying playfully to rouse her, he 
takes his leave in utter disgust that she could be so dead to the 
charm of his touch. 

Would not his feelings have been deeply wounded could he have 
seen her when she was sure he was gone? She wet the towel and 
rubbed her face as if she were trying to cleanse it from some infec- 
, tious disease. Neither does he dream that she spends a sleepless 
night planning to outwit him and the widow as well. Now, even if 
it is late, since she is willing to listen, wisdom tells her all that she 
was so willing to tell her long ago had she not permitted that 
capricious child, Feeling, to come between them. Now she counts 
her own weakness and decides to watch and even pray, but keeps her 
' own counsel. So late morning finds her still in bed for the express 
purpose of undisturbed thought. But at 10 o’clock the widow calls 
her to say that Mr. Schilling desires to see her. Marie hastily dons 
her shoes and a wrapper and follows the widow down to the very 
room at whose threshhold she had last night listened to what ought 
to prove to her a helpful conversation. 






56 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


CHAPTER XIII. 


A GENERAL AWAKENING. 

When Widow Grass opens the door Edward arises, expecting an' 
invitation to go up-stairs. His surprise knows no bounds at the 
slovenly, indifferent girl who enters unabashed behind Mrs. Grass. 
For one brief moment he stands indignantly awaiting an apology,! 
for it is the very first time he has looked on Marie without being* 
conscious that she tried to look well in his eyes since he saw her go 1 
about the farm duties with a happy, carefree heart, singing as sliV 
went, her life unclouded by the miasma of his presence. As she 
coolly seats herself in the easiest chair, with an unmoved nod and 
“Good morning, Edward,” he burst forth in an undignified splutter: j 


“Marie Jones! Did you not know I was here?” 

With what sounds to him like an insolent chuckle, she answers: 
“Oh, the lady told me you were here, and now of eourse I see you 
standing there like a school boy, hat in hand, and a good easy chai^ 
just behind you. Sit down, Mr. Schilling, please do.” 


In his astonishment he drops into the chair, not knowing how to 
continue to his own advantage. But, being used to domineering 
Marie, he bursts out: “Marie, I must see you immediately in your 
room. This impudence I will not tolerate.” 


She neither rushes weeping to her room, as he expected, nor dock 
she flare up, as he hopes, and go there indignant. In either case he 
would have followed with an air of great superiority and required 
much humiliating proof of her penitence. This is what he hears: 1 

“Very well, go and see me if you can find me there! But just 
now I am too comfortably seated to go and help you search.” 





FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


57 


“Marie Jone 3 , if you do not obey me I shall leave this house and 
never see you again. Now I mean what I say.” 

“Very well, sir; I dare you to make your threat good. But re¬ 
member, when you miss one day coining here I shall have some say¬ 
ing and doing as well. And really, sir, I think if I should call my 
dear old father and mother here to help me their simple clean faces 
and lives would help me to do as much for you as you could do for 
me.” 

Edward's cowardly rage knew no bounds, and he sprang at her 
•• with clenched fist to strike her senseless at one blow, but the little 
stilletto that she used, once before is lifted in her hands above her 
Y head to protect herself, and it drives in his hand and hangs quivering 
| there while he howls with pain and rage. Mrs. Grass is a study, and 
| for the moment would give all she has to get rid of these two demon- 
( possessed people, but she does not cry out, lest her own guilt become 
apparent. To her horror Edward jerks the dagger from his hand 
and menacingly approaches Marie, saying: “I have a mind to drive 
this to your heart, you scarlet woman! You have used this on me 
for the second and last time, you—” but what he intended to say 
lies frozen in his heart, for Marie calmly arises and says: 

“'Very well; but what will you say to explain my absence should 
mother appear with a letter written in my own hand confessing all, 
my part and yours, and giving her our address ?” 

Death can never bleach those two guilty faces like the words of 
this ignorant country girl. 

Mrs. Grass speaks first, saying: “I want you to leave my house 
this minute. You have ruined me, a good, respectable, though un¬ 
fortunate woman.” 

“You really FEEL that way about it, do you? And you FEEL 
that you could concoct a story that would do when mother and the 




58 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


police came here FEELING that they must find me or know the 
reason why.” 

A vague terror crept into their hearts as last night’s conversa¬ 
tion flashed in memory through their brains, but like most guilty 
people they felt it could not be possible that she knew about it, for 
had they not gone up and found her sleeping? Yet, try as they 
will, they cannot force from her the humility they so much desire. 
Edward tries again the old plan of wheedling that worked so nicely 
less than a year ago, but is now of no avail, so he decides to leave 
her to herself for a while, hoping that she is only taken with what 
he calls one of her stubborn spells. At parting, he says: “Well, my 
pretty one, to show you that I am not so cruel as you, here are 
twenty-five dollars. You may want little things that Mrs. Grass 
does not know of, and that it would humiliate you to ask for. When 
you need more let me know, or if you know of a need for more now 
let me know, and it will surely come.” This tack has never before 
failed to bring her around, so he expectantly waits for the result. 
To his utter surprise she only says: 

“Thank you, sir. I would not accept it in my own name, but in 
the name of another, who is flesh of your flesh, and bone of your 
bone, and who may some day, down the dim aisle of the future say 
to me, ‘Mother, tell me of my father; my very own father, I mean. 
Something good, mother. You speak of the great God and the merci¬ 
ful Christ who has done so much for you and I, but why do you 
never tell me good things of my father?’ Then I will tell him of 
these crisp bills that you gave me for him even before we heard his 
first faint cry, and should conscience whisper in your ear this nmht 
like a good angel to increase it, I will tell him of that.” 

Oh, Mane; you have one of your dreamy spells. Shake it off 
You know our plans. Don’t be a goose.” 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


59 


“Yes, I know your plans, but plans sometimes slip, as you once 
told me.” 

“Well, I will come tomorrow, and then we shall see. One thing 
I can say, you always make good use of what I give you. And 
now good-bye, my dear. My hand is hurting me and I must not 
tarry, but go to the doctor and have it dressed. So kiss me good¬ 
bye and forget it all.” 

So with mock humility he comes to give her a good-bye kiss and 
receive the old-time confidential caress that he now finds meant 
more to him than he knew. She only turns an unimpassioned cheek 
to him, saying: 

“’Tis strange that in so well an aimed blow at a ‘scarlet woman’ 
you should so injure your pure self. Next time take more care 
where you strike.” 

Why does he grasp her hands and put them about his neck and 
beg for an old-time caress? He will not go two blocks until in his 
heart he will be cursing her for all that has come to pass. Now he 
thinks he is sincere. ’Tis again the wounded feelings, and so ’tis no 
surprise that the widow Grass receives a long letter by the morn¬ 
ing mail, furthering their plans and saying he fears some of the 
servants have carried news of his being there, and he thinks possibly 
Marie feels that he is too intimate with Mrs. Grass, etc., etc., and 
that when he comes he will call Marie and ask permission. And so 
we find them for awhile—Marie and Mrs. Grass and the butler, who 
partly heard what was said that day in the parlor, and whose heart 
went out to the sad, pretty girl whose fate he guessed from the past, 
for many queer things knew that dignified, impassive butler. This 
morning -his mistress drinks heavily of what he brings from the 
cellar. Soon she is fast asleep, with Edward’s letter open before her, 
and as butlers have a way in houses of respectable mystery, he soon 
made himself acquainted with its contents. He quickly wrote, 


60 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


“Miss, read, replace note and all where you found this, and if you 
ever speak of how you found out, say you cannot tell—you saw no 
one, and could not name them men, angels or devils. Yours in mys¬ 
tery.” 

Having led his mistress to the couch to, as he said, sleep off her 
headache, he hastily pressed another glass to her lips for the sake 
of her head, slipped the letter and. his note into the envelope, tip¬ 
toed up stairs, poked it behind the door knob, and rapped boldly on 
Marie’s door. She in fright called out /‘Who is there?” No answer, 
only a gentle tapping now, and somehow she felt impelled to peep 
into the hall, even after the tap, tap, tap had ceased. As the door 
opened in fell the letter. Her eye searched the hall up and down. 
Where did it come from? Who was the messenger? Where had he 
gone? The little note was read first, then the letter. Then she 
wrote a little note, saying, “Leave me behind, but when they forget 
bring the letters if you can, or tell me where they are kept and I 
will help myself. I certainly thank you, and shall pray our God 
that though you should be part devil (I am sure it could only be 
part), that He will redeem you for His own.” Carefully putting her 
added note with the letter and the other note, she replaced them, 
and waited. Soon her note was flipped under the door, and added 
was, “I will do as you say. Burn me—be sure.” Down goes Mr. 
Butler, and finding his mistress still sleeping soundly, he makes bold 
to place the letter in her bosom for safe keeping, and as he mutters 
to himself, “no suspicions.” Then he proceeds to burn his own note, 
just as a messengel' boy rides up with a message for Marie Jones, 
for which the butler signs, and going up stairs timidly delivers, with 
much misgiving, seeing the handwriting is like the one he so stealth¬ 
ily delivered a while ago. 

“Miss Jones, I believe,” he said. 

“I am Marie Jones.” 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


61 


“Here is a letter for you,” and bowing he abruptly passed down 
■ the stairs. 

When she opened the envelope out fell two crisp $100 bills, and 
the following message: 

“Use one yourself and save the other for that time of which you 
spoke yesterday, should it ever come. I suppose you will think me 
niggardly, and say that is about as much from me as a copper cent 
would be from you, but think how unthankful you have been of late. 
But should you decide to follow our plans keep them both, and I 
will add to them from time to time. I will be up to see you this 
afternoon, but just now is my busy time, and we have some new 
help, which you know always makes a lot of bother. So good-bye, 
sweetheart; don’t worry. E. S.” 

How she pictured the store and the country girl who had come 
to take her place. How she longed to save her. But how? 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE NEW HELP. 

For a while we will leave Marie Jones to consider Irene and her 
woes, and we will begin by giving her letter to Edward, and lus 
answer: 

Ora, Indiana. 

“Mr. Schilling: 

“Dear Sir: Since your going I am more lonely than I can tell. 
Please do not think me bold or that it is you for whom I am so 
lonely, for as I look the situation over I have no right to feel that I 
have any hold upon you. This is my surprise and disappointment. 





62 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


Since your going Peggy leaves me to myself, except when I seek her, 
and Jack is simply wild about her. He cannot leave her to herself 
at all. Really, I think they will soon marry. So does the whole 
neighborhood, and as Jack has always been looked upon as mine, my 
humiliation is more than I can bear. So if you will send me a busi¬ 
ness letter offering me a position, then slip a letter inside telling me 
if you mean it or not, I will accept or refuse it, just as you advise 
me. But at any rate it will give me a chance to let the neighbors 
know that you at least thought of me after you left, and also if I 
do not come that I am still among them by choice, and not because 
I must be, as you know my position in the school is not bad, and 
I seem to love it more than ever now, but if I remain the neighbor¬ 
hood joke I fear I shall lose even that. If you have a good opening 
for me I shall do my best to succeed. 


J-LVU-LN ill -IVflL 1 -LYIU-lN u. 

If we could read Edward’s thoughts no doubt they would run on 
this wise: “Rich! You can count on a female nowadays to make a 
arge sized fool of herself at the first good opportunity. Now if she 
was smart all her troubles are in her imagination." I suppose I 
ought to write and tell her what I so easily could, but she would 
not hsten, and if she wants to become game, why not my game?” 
And with this self-justifying thought he writes: 


Indianapolis, April 6, 19—. 

My Dear Miss Raymond: We have two vacancies in our estab¬ 
lishment. One for a lady to go out among our high-class customers 

n h ng , a r artlcIe9 - sa y a P air of gloves. Often we receive 

to slnd 7 : 'l r 6 r artiCl6S Iike that Where we are expected 

to send a lady whose business it is to see that the article fits, and 

is in every way satisfactory. I only mention gloves that you may 

more clearly get an idea of what I mean, and as you hive suel 
























































































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FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


65 


good judgment and are a good mixer with people of all classes, YOU 
are particularly fitted to fill this place. Your salary will be $10.00 a 
week to begin. The other place is in the dress-making department, 
and as your friend, Miss Strong, is so handy with her shears, if you 
can induce her to come along we will pay her $9.00 per week at the 
beginning. Hoping to hear from you soon, and believing you know 
it will give me much joy to have you here, I remain, 

Yours, 

EDWARD SCHILLING, 

of Schilling & Co.” 

1 


A small note was enclosed with the letter, and ran thus: This 
k offer is real, and will it not serve young Harsh right if you girls 
both come away and leave him to his glory? Answer at the earliest 
opportunity, and do your best. Edward.” 

Poor Irene! Her vanity knew no bounds. After carefully de¬ 
stroying the little note she hastened to acquaint father and mother 
with what she termed her golden opportunity to know life, the world 
and society. The old folks were conscious of an ache of disappoint¬ 
ment in their hearts, but decided if Irene felt the need of life like 
that they would sell the old home and go, too, if she wanted them 
to. 

“Not so,” says Irene. “I want to try life single-handed for once. 
I have leaned on you and father for prestige all my life. Now I 
want to try my own wings and see if I have real ability or if it is 
family that holds me up.” 

In the old home hitherto so sedate now all is confusion. Irene 
seems stampeded with the importance of her triumph and the effort 
she must put forth to convince Peggy that any good at all can come 
of the thing. “Peggy seems so very dense” (she writes Edward). 
“I fear I cannot convince her at all that we will even be considered 


< 



FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


06 

respectable. My mother favors Peggy’s ideas. She says, ‘What bet¬ 
ter do I want than the home school and the old home, with an oc¬ 
casional trip to the city?’ But I long for its day by day contact 
and grind until its ways become my ways and its thoughts my 
thoughts. So I am coming, even if Peggy decides to refuse alto¬ 
gether. If Peggy comes our mothers prefer that we rent a cottage 
and have a home together. Somehow Peggy has a mortal fear of 
boarding. As for me, I would grapple with life just as she is, yester- 
day, and today and forever, and conquer her. Peggy says I will be 
badly conquered if I do not have a care, but I have no fear since you 
are there to guide and advise me.” 

And so the letters flew back and forth between Edward and Irene. 

As that unseen, restless wing of discontent grew strong by con¬ 
stant vibration in the hearts of both girls, to Irene the old home 
and all its treasures seemed irksome and debased. But to Peggy the 
old home, the family, every child that came to play, the trees and 
flowers, and even the blades of grass were looked upon and touched 
with reverence. 

And thus the hour of their departure arrives. Irene with head 
erect and heart hopeful and eyes aflame with ambition, Peggy tear¬ 
fully fearful and with so much taunting dread in her face that she has 
more the appearance of a slave going to the block, and in this state 
of mind they arrive in Indianapolis, so that when Edward meets 
them he is so impressed with Irene’s superior beauty that he greatly 
wonders what he ever saw in Peggy to so work on his sympathies 
as to make him desire her to think well of him. 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


67 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE NEW HOME IN INDIANAPOLIS. 

How glad was the heart of Irene that Edward had already found 
them such a neat cottage out on Massachusetts Avenue, and to see 
a tiny kitchen added, so that instead of four rooms they have five 
nice cozy ones. This leaves a spare bedroom, so that company may 
come. How Edward wishes that Irene was alone, but the girls tell 
him that they have promised their mothers to stay together, so if 
one goes home they both must go. Irene, since Edward seems all 
hers, now feels very generous and kind to Peggy, for while he has 
never openly engaged himself to her, he is always kind and lover-like, 
and she is well content, feeling that they really have a clear under¬ 
standing, but that for some reason unknown to her he dares not 
declare himself. Possibly he is afraid of being refused. And so the 
days fly by. Peggy is very happy, for Jack, dear old fellow, has 
told her plainly that she must be his wife, that life for him with 
«no” from her is impossible. Irene wanted her to withhold her 
“yes” until Edward had declared himself, and they would both be¬ 
come engaged and don their rings at the same time, but Jack spoke 
on this wise to Peggy about it: 

“Look here, Peggy, is it that you do not care for me, or is it 
Irene that is against me and wants to tie your life to some of Ed¬ 
ward’s swell friends ? And can it be that my sensible little Peggy 
is deceived by the glare of their display ?” 

An so it came to pass that before Peggy was aware she had told 
Jack the whole story, and found on her finger a beautiful diamond 
ring, and had agreed to an early autumn wedding. She also pressed 
Jack for permission to only wear the ring when he was there until 






68 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


Irene had one just like it. And so they announce their engagement 
to Edward and Irene. 

Just a few days later as Edward goes the rounds of the store 
he sees Peggy’s hand minus her ring, and exclaims in surprise: 

“What. Your engagement broken already?” 

“No. Why do you ask?” says Peggy. 

“Then why do you not wear your ring?” 

Defiantly Peggy answers: “I am waiting until Irene gets one 
like it.” 

Without a quiver of her long lashes she meets bravely and 
squarely his startled, puzzled look. Then he turns and walks away, 
and down to where Irene works at the counter. How beautiful 
and innocent she looked! How unconscious of any deception! 
“Who could her country sweetheart be, anyway, and,” thought Ed¬ 
ward, “if my plan should succeed what sort of an accounting will he 
call me to?” Then his good angel whispered once more to his callous 
heart: “Why not win her for your lawful wife? She is pure and of 
good family—possibly better than your own. What peace do you 
get out of this wrong-doing anyway.” Then he would picture her: 

What if under this innocent exterior she was weak and vile? Very 
probably she was never tested. Now he had it. He would test her, 
and if she stood the test, why, maybe, some time after while he 
might marry her.” At any rate he resolved to engage himself to 
her, and so be rid of the chap in the country, whoever he might be. 
So he invited her to go with him to dinner, and in a very business¬ 
like way inquired if she expected soon to quit her position and marry, 
saying Miss Strong had intimated as much, but he refused to repeat 
just what Miss Strong had said. Probably he had told too much 
already, and he hoped she would not be offended with either himself 
or Miss Strong. Now he assumes his most lover-like attitude To 
him it meant a very great deal, as he had really hoped to win her 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


69 


for himself, and had hoped she cared for him even ever so little, for 
then he might hope to win her whole heart and confidence. Would 
she think about it? And when might he call for his answer? He 
intended to make bold to call that evening,” so he said, as now he 
had spoken he could not wait, but must have an answer soon. “If 
need be take this afternoon off and think it all out.” Surely his 
attitude toward her made her think on this before. It would not be 
hard, therefore, to decide. 

Not one word had he allowed her to speak, and somehow so con¬ 
fused was she, now that it had come, that she felt choked and could 
hardly breathe, much less speak, and somehow she was glad when 
they parted ways, he for the store, and she for the cottage to think 
it all out. All afternoon she wrestles with her joy and her con¬ 
fusion and somehow she is strangely disappointed. Edward goes 
back to the store in a strange state of ecstacy and proudly tells 
Peggy all about it. She in turn promises to use her influence if 
need be to make Irene think well of him. And so the day goes by, 
and as the shades of night gather round, even before the girls have 
finished their frugal meal, Edward rang their door bell, and on 
being admitted and seeing them at the table, asked permission to 
come and sit with them. Of course they granted this. How much 
at home he made himself! When the meal was ended Peggy drove 
Edward and Irene to the little parlor, saying, “Now, you naughty 
children, clear out of here. Go to the piano and let me hear floating 
forth soul-inspiring music as an accompaniment to the clatter of the 
dishes.” A great nameless fear clutched Irene’s heart, and when 
she refused to go a wonder entered Edward’s mind if he was going 
to be rejected after all, but Peggy cut short all their dreaming by 
laying hold of one of Irene’s arms, and asked Edward to take the 
other° and help her lead the lady of caprice to the piano. He not 
only obeyed, but placed his unengaged arm gently but firmly around 




70 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


her waist and so they half led, half carried her to the piano. No 
need for further urging. Before Peggy’s hands were again in the 
dishwater Irene was feverishly, almost blindly, playing—what? Oh, 
anything so that Edward could not start again that subject of mar¬ 
riage. For suddenly her girlhood seemed dearer to her than all* the 
world beside. What a medley of this and that she played! A regu- 
lai concert. A farewell to her own self-possession. Peggy’s dishes 
are washed, her mending is done, and bed time here, and Edward, 
try as he will, has been unable to speak of his proposal. Peggy, 
thinking surely they have come to some understanding, comes to^the 
door and looks inquiringly in. Suddenly the piano ceases, and Irene 
says, “Come, sister,” and before Peggy is really settled in her chair 
Irene has her Bible and is reading the First Psalm as an evening 
lesson. As the word “perish” leaves her lips both girls kneel to pray. 
Edward sits for a moment in wide-eyed astonishment, and then 
slowly and reluctantly kneels. His mind goes back to another girl 
who used to pray in this very room, and he remembers that the last 
time he knelt to pray was when Marie offered the prayer. He can¬ 
not help wondering if Irene’s humiliation will be as complete as 
Mane s. In his heart he must acknowledge she is in many ways 
different. For one thing she is better educated. So kneelino- he 
realizes he now has a foe worthy of his steel. He is astonished at 
how readily he knelt, even without being asked, tonight, when he 
remembers how Marie plead with him to kneel with her. So he 
realizes that if ever Irene is his victim she will at least be a differ¬ 
ent victim from the other. As he thus cogitated the girls arose to 
their feet, and Irene quietly gave him his hat, saying, “Pardon me 

yj,, 9:3 ° ; at thiS time We retire * 1 h °P e m 7 ™sic has not bored 
“On^the contrary, I enjoyed it very much. But how about my 




/ 


Irene Raymond 









FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


73 


“It is not ready tonight. Good-bye.” 

Again Edward is surprised. Of all the girls he has known, never 
one like this. “As for Peggy,” he reasons, “I have never yet touched 
her heart; therefore it is easy for her to resist me. But Irene—I 
can’t understand. I am sure she loves me, and yet just when I 
think I hold her firmly, she is gone like an elusive humming bird, 
whose wings seem only to flutter, but you suddenly find them be¬ 
yond your grasp, and yourself powerless to call them back, though 
they hover just beyond your hand. She cannot know of Marie, or 
like the lark, she would soar away from me and leave me far be¬ 
hind, but, though she loves me, she is in my life as a fragrant flower, 
yet elusive as a bird. I wonder who will conquer?” 

Never before has he wondered “who would conquer?” His boast 
has been the easy conquest he made of women’s hearts, and as all 
his victims have been professed Christians, it does not occur to him 
to credit her strength to her Christianity, but by the time he reaches 
his club a new mode of attack, whereby he expects to surely conquer 
has formed in his brain. On his table at the club he finds a letter 
which for the moment dims his plan for Irene. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


EDWARD JUNIOR. 

Edward picks up the envelope and a great wave of misgiving 
surges through his guilty soul, for the writing is the well known 
hand of Mrs. Grass. Under his breath he mutters, “And now what? ’ 
Not long does he need, to wait. The letter follows: 

“Mr Edward Schilling: 


74 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


“Dear Papa: There is a minature man at our house who is cry¬ 
ing his lungs sore. His mother calls him Edward Schilling. She is 
wild about him, and will not allow him out of her sight lest harm 
come to him. She thinks we want to slip him a\^ay from her. As 
that is your honorable name, and as our little man greatly resem¬ 
bles you in look and act, I thought, and so did Dr. _, you 

might like to drop around and talk to his mother, who seems to 
have some very strenuous plans for you and him. 


Yours, MRS. GRASS.” 

‘Strenuous? Strenuous plans? mat could it mean? Suppose 
she should have him arrested? Suppose Irene should find him out? 
Oh Lord! Suppose she has? And can that be why my answer is 
not ready?” 


He staggered to a chair while these and many other questions 
of discomfort surged through his suddenly weary and baffled brain. 

enever he laid a plan of action, it immediately seemed impossible. 
And thus he wrestled with self and sin till the “wee sma’” hours of 
the morn „g. His mind traveled back to the time in his boyhood 

feet"noW r’T Tf”® ° f Wild yet thoray way which his 
feet now trod. Then again and again he goes over it all, vainly 

wondering when and where it will end, until an imperative ring at 
the telephone arouses him from his reverie, and he hears Mrs Grass’ 
voice saying m her soft, sweet, and for him tantalising tones 
Hello! Who is this? Edward? All right. The baby's mother in¬ 
sists on sending for the baby’s grandmother Jones. If that is not 

iz::izz d j tter come ~** “ we 

I have been so bus^I^d^^lwa^ ^ ^ 

“But-- 


“Good-bye, Mrs. Grass; will see you later.” 




FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


“But-” 

Bang! He liung up the receiver. With a muttered oath he starts 
from the building. No time now for dreams of the past. The pres¬ 
ent furnishes plenty of food for thought. And why will Mrs. Grass 
insist on discussing such private matters over the ’phone. In his 
hour of terror he begins to fear her too, and he gets righteously in¬ 
dignant as he faces what he considers the perfidy of woman, and so 
he decides they are fickle, treacherous and bad. Even Irene, he 
meditates has played him false, and without cause, at that, for he 
has been extremely good to her. While thus pondering he arrives 
at the home of Mrs. Grass. His third ring is answered by the 
butler, who seems inclined not to admit him. Nevertheless he tells 
Mr. Butler that Mrs. Grass expects him, and pushes his way up the 
stairs and into Marie’s room. 

Again the old story of the good angel knocking at the door of a 
barred and stony heart is fulfilled. He stands transfixed at the sight 
before him. On the bed lies Marie, as white as the pillow beneath 
her head, and as her eyes are closed she recalls to his mind the time, 
seemingly ages ago, when she lay like that, pale and helpless, robbed 
of that priceless white dove, Purity. How the good angel tugs at 
his heart! She seems unconscious of his presence. Can she be sham¬ 
ming? He moves nearer. Still she does not see him. Beside her 
he sees a tiny bundle in a pink blanket, from which a lusty cry 
issues forth as if to announce his presence. Marie says in a weak 
voice, as she opens her eyes and lifts the blanket from a tiny red 
face, “There, darling, mother is here, and loves her little son. Don’t 
cry.” And again she closes her eyes and does not see Edward. As 
he stands thus, conscience, long fast asleep, arouses and his throat 
is hot and dry, and his breath seems prone to leave him. His curi¬ 
osity leads him to reach gently across Marie and softly lift the 
blanket and gaze long and earnestly at the mite of humanity con- 



76 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


tained therein, while his pounding heart seems to trumpet the words 
so that all the world might hear, “Your son, sir; your only son. 
What do you intend doing for him ?” until, weak and faint, he seeks 
air by the open window, where the butler finds him when he comes 
up to peep “how the poor little lady is getting on.” 

The bad angel, always so willing to invent trouble, whispers to 
Edward: “See, she is on pretty good terms with Mr. Butler. How 
do you know what has happened?” and immediately he is strong 
with rage, and confronts the butler thus: “Sir, what right have you 
here in this sick lady’s room? I command you to leave, and shall 
see that Mrs. Grass dismisses you, you scoundrel.” 

I assure you, sir,” says the butler, “'my errand here differs from 
yours, and is a harmless one. I wish I might command you to leave 
my poor lady’s room. Furthermore, think you it would help your 
cause even if I should resign and go you know not where? ’Twould 
not cost me much to take a trip to Royal Center, you know. Be¬ 
sides you know butlers have eyes, ears, and sometimes hearts.” 

Beneath the cool scorn of this man long accustomed to serve Ed¬ 
ward sinks down again in the chair by the window, too angry and 
too baffled to know what to say or do next. 

Marie starts up and would arise, from the bed, but the butler 
steps quickly to her side and gently forces her back to the pillow 
saying, “There, there, my dear, it is all right now; lie quiet.” To 
Edward’s astonishment she sinks back into a gentle slumber 

When the butler turns again to face Edward he meets a smiling, 
affable gentleman, whose hand is extended in friendly greeting as he 
says: “Well, come, sir; we both love the same woman, buf Thile 
1 have only power to destroy, it seems you have power to make 
alive As they leave the sick room the butler responds: “Bah' 

I take your word for it. Are those soft and silly speeches the 
means whereby you stole from her the rarest gift God gives to 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


77 


woman? While I am only a butler, I know your game. It is my 
liberty and tongue you fear more than my friendship you crave. 
Furthermore, I know the harm you have plotted together to do this 
poor mother and innocent babe. I know you plan they shall not 
leave this place alive. Now I tell you what will go much further 
with me than your flattery. Do this—abandon these plans. Get her 
a good, decent nurse. Be at least a piece of a man, and when she is 
well she will take care of your child.” 

How the scenes of life shift. Now the butler becomes the master 
and Edward the serf. They stand thus and read each other eye to 
eye, the butler haughty, scornful, defiant—Edward weak, sniveling, 
almost helpless and pleading, for he is fearfully aware that this 
haughty man before him knows the secret. For has he not read out 

the very things that he and Mrs. Grass and Dr. -had planned 

to do? Now he knows he dare not even think of doing such a thing. 
Thus they stand and think, and start, and plan. 

At last Edward says, “Get your nurse; I will pay.” 

“No,” says the butler, “you must get the nurse yourself, then 
you will be responsible. You do not get a chance directly or indi¬ 
rectly to get off your work and lay it to my charge.” 

“Very well, as you like. But I want to tell you I think you are 
a conceited ass who thinks he knows a great many things which he 
does not know at all.” 

“Think of me as you like. If you try any of your tricks on me 
you will soon find to your sorrow what I know, and in turn you 
will know a great many things that now you do not think you 
know.” 

“Oh, nonsense! Let us be friends. The nurse will be here this 

afternoon. Now I will be going.” 

So saying he dons his hat and leaves without a thought of good¬ 
bye to the penitent girl up stairs. 



78 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


CHAPTER XVII. 


THE NUKSE. 

Edward went straight to Dr. --’s office. After waiting his 

turn impatiently, he accosts the doctor on this wise: “Well, Doc, 
you and the widow have certainly messed things nicely for me. You 
have let that infernal butler in on all our plans. He insists on a 
trained nurse, and that we do our best to pull the little lady through 
and let her keep the child.” 

“Oh, shucks! Have the widow fire the butler.” 

We dare not. He threatens us, and demands a nurse immedi¬ 
ately.” 

“That is surely bad. I have no nurse suitable for that job. I 
have a thought. Leave it to me. ’Twill work smooth as butter. 
I will get a first-class nurse and yet our plans will move without 
one jar. Use your eyes. You shall see.” 

“Oh, yes; you might add, ‘you shall pay, too.’” 

Very well, then I will add it. You shall surely pay what the 
job is worth, at least.” 

“All right. Only don’t get my name in any scandal. You know 
I have another country beauty on the string who would be scared 
clear off if a breath reached her. So have a care. A nurse this day? 
What say you?” J ‘ 

Dr -- went to tlle P ho ne and called Mrs. Heck, who answered: 

“Dr.-, did you say ?” 

“Yes; we want you on a very urgent case up north. Can you go 
today? Babe several hours old, mother and child doin°- fine. I 
anticipate no trouble whatever.” 





FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


79 


“Well, doctor, you know I have never nursed for you, and I ex¬ 
pect any day to be called on another case. I don’t believe I can 
possibly come.” 

“Oh, well, give us all the time you can. When your case comes 
off we can possibly get one of my old nurses.” And so he urged and 
so she came, honest, straight and true—a real servant of the Master, 
and the butler soon knew she was all right. 

Mrs. Grass undertook to make her think Marie a wife, but with 
the keen intuition of a well trained nurse her shapely head was 
filled with wonderings, and foolish Marie distrusted her. Such is 
always the case with Marie and her kind. A blind trust where 
every faculty should be on the alert, and dread and distrust where 
full confidence should have swing. Not so with the butler. He knew 
he could trust her to the full, and by noon of the second day he has 
slipped her a note acquainting her with the facts. Not one word 
did nurse Heck breathe to indicate her knowledge, but on this wise 
she talked to Marie: 

“■What a sweet babe you have, and now I know you will try 
your very best to bring him up a good man. Wouldn t you be soiry 
if he grew up to be one of those low down dandies whose chief work 
is the deception of pure, good girls ? Sometimes real Christian girls, 
at that. I have known men to make love to a girl apparently with 
their whole heart, and then after betraying her and robbing her of 
the little white dove, her virtue, spurn her and her child. Some¬ 
times making her give the babe away and selling the mother into a 
house of sin and shame.” 

Marie answers: “Have you actually known of such happenings?” 

“Many times, my dear.” 

“How do they accomplish it?” 

“Well, at first they win the girl’s heart and confidence, and many 
times that of her mother. Then, instead of a marriage such as they 


80 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


promise, they seduce her, and by some means get her away from 
home. Then by some system of promises she is induced to become 
a mistress instead of a wife, but with wifehood held out as a bait, 
but forever just a little further on. If she is young and pretty and 
has been a good girl and of a good family, as is often the case, her 
first year is full of all sorts of social amusements to keep her con¬ 
science down and prevent too much communication with mother, 
which might spoil it all. After the first year things go from bad to 
worse by leaps and bounds. Often a little child as sweet and pure 
as your own son is the result, ,and that makes trouble of many 
kinds. If no child is born, in his treacherous heart he conceives the 
more contemptible idea of unloading her in a house of shame, at 
which game he can always find plenty of men and women of his own 
kind to help, and to pay him a little beside. If you care to 
know, when you are well I will tell you of many of the ways in 
which it is done. You are not strong enough to hear them. You 
look nervous from what I have told you thus far.” 

“Oh, nurse! I want so much to hear of these poor girls’ suffer¬ 
ings. Do tell me more,” said Marie, rising up in bed in almost a 
nervous frenzy. “You know you said you might not get to stay 
long, and I must hear.” 

“There, dear, lie down,” said the nurse, gently stroking the poor 
girl’s hair. 

“Oh, nurse; tell me this one thing. What OUGHT the poor souls 
do who find themselves in such a state?” 

“Why, that is an easy question to answer. Simply do this, and 
do it quickly. Lay aside all pretense. Make a clean breast of it all. 
Take the babe and go home to mother. Go to work and give the 
child as good a bringing up as is possible under the circumstances, 
and by and by some good man will come along who will take her, 
knowing who and what she is, and make for her tired head and 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


81 


aching heart a secure resting place, and though her home he humhle, 
God will make it a place where the dove of peace will rest forever, 
and 'twill go down through the echoes of time sounding a clear 
ringing note of the true, with life lines extending in every direction . 
to those whose lives and hopes are shattered on the same rock of 
man’s lust; whereas if they persist in their evil way of sin and de¬ 
ceit nothing but despair and failure can he the fruit, and probably in 
a few short years a dishonored grave—maybe that of suicide. Now 
you must rest, for soon your husband and the doctor will be here. 

No need to say rest. Marie is lying pale and quiet as death. But 
for the throbbing of her temples she might be dead, so far as sight or 
sound is concerned. And so pass by the two short weeks for the 
nurse and Marie. Time would have become very monotonous but for 
the vigilance of the butler and the coming of Edward and the doctor, 
and now Nurse Heck must go to the other case. Marie is able to sit 
up, and with many misgivings she bids farewell to Nurse Heck. 
How she longs to ask the good nurse to come back and see her, for 
now she has learned to believe in her. Once she is tempted to make 
a clean breast of it all and ask the nurse to help, but like her kind, 
she guards well the truth of her guilty secret by saying, “I would 
ask you back, but I am thinking of going home in a few days for a 
long while. When I get back come and see me. I will tell you when 
and where. We are planning quite a change.” 

In one moment after this speech was delivered she felt desper¬ 
ately angry, and a great fear arose in her heart lest she had cut 
loose from a much needed helping hand. But when she looked the 
nurse in the eye she read such pleasant approval of her plan there, 
and heard her saying, “Good, my dear, and when you get home tell 
mother all I have told you—all about the babe and everything. It 
will relieve your tired nerves. You know mothers understand so 

easily.” 


82 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


“I will do all you say, nurse,” answers Marie. 

And so they part, Nurse Heck full of peace which comes of having 
made an earnest try for the right, Marie in the throes of despair 
• born of a wicked life and its attendant deceits. Nurse acquaints the 
butler with Marie’s plan, and he, too, feels the surgings of hope in 
his soul. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE INTERVIEW. 


By that wonderfully useful agent, the telephone, Edward ar¬ 
ranges with Mrs. Grass to send the butler away for a few hours. 
No sooner is he safely out than Edward appears on the scene, and 
between him and Marie the following conversation takes place: 

As he enters her room Edward says: “Good morning, mother. 
Where is your good friend, the butler?” 

“How do I know, papa? I suppose he is about his work.” 

“Oh, shucks! How nicely you bluff. If he had my gold you would 
be truthful about it, wouldn’t you? When he went out did you kiss 
him good-bye and call him papa ? You must know I am not asleep. 
How long did you know him in the cottage?” 

“Edward, you are a brute. You know I never met him until you 
brought me here, and furthermore you know he has been a o- 00 d 
true friend to me. I won’t hear such talk from you.” 

“Then you bid me begone. You will never do it twice. I come 
here to talk things over, and you flare up like this. If I was his 

father (pointing to the sleeping babe) “you would not act like this 
(aood-bye.” 

















' 






































































. 





















Marie Jones 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


85 


At the mention of their son Marie sprang up and flung her arms 
about his neck, clinging to him as for life, begging him to not leave 
them thus, and telling him that surely he could see that it was his 
own son. He, after making appearance of great effort to get away, 
and working her up to a regular frenzy, moved to a chair, and taking 
her on his knee assumed the role of innocent inquiry, saying, “Marie, 
you know if you never met him until you came here he would not 
dare take the liberties around you I have seen him take, unless he 
believed you very loose and bold/’ 

“Edward, he only meant to defend me and our child” 

“Get right up from here. Do I not know he tried to keep the 
father of your child out of the house, and did he not say much to 
show his authority over you? Oh, my little lady, he made it all too 
plain. If you chose to come to court against me I would get clear. 
You can’t make a plumb fool of me, even if I have a few money 
bags. Why don’t you get up and let me go? I tell you you won’t 
get the dough you seek out of me, so go on with your youngster’s 
dad.” 

“I will not let you go. You know this is your child. Maybe I 
am mistaken. I really thought the butler my friend. I have been 
deceived so often, maybe I am again. Tell me what he said. I ought 
to know. We should have an understanding.” 

“Well, for one thing, he came into your room even before the 
nurse was here, and fondled you right before my eyes. Furthermore, 
he said he wished he dare put me out, and called me vile names, and 
made wild accusations against me. I do not care to go into detail. 
You need not even believe me if you would rather not, but if you 
question what I say, or have anything more to say to him, I am 
done with you and him (the babe) forever.” 

“What do you want me to do?” 

“That is your job, how to rid yourself and your affairs of him and 


86 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


liis efforts. I give you until tomorrow morning to do it. If when I 
come in the morning he attempts to bother me, I go away forever.” 

“I will surely do my best. How to set about it I do not know.” 

“Oh, confide in him, of course. Tell him all I have said to you. Let 
him lie out of it. That is you and your kind. Then wonder why 
men of ability are afraid to marry you. Why, you would trail our 
honor in the dust by the year if we gave you the security of wife¬ 
hood.” 

“Trust me, Edward; I will find a way.” 

“Trust you? Can you trust yourself?” 

“No, I really cannot. But I will try. If I succeed, what do you 
intend doing with babe and I?” 

“That is what I came for. I have a proposal to make to you. I 
will get you a position in one of the stores. You wean the babe” 
(seeing her hurt look) “or partly so, and I will pay yours and its 
board at Mrs. Grass’. That way you can do nicely. Maybe by and 
by you can marry some nice fellow, and we can always be friends. 
He need never know.” 

“I cannot do that. I want my old place in the store if you will 
not marry me.” 

“Why can’t you do as I say ?” 

“Because I love you and love our child.” 

“If that were true you would be glad to do as I say, and not want 
your own way so much. Besides, your old place in the store is filled 
by a lady of spotless character. If ever she is the mother of a little 
son it will be an honor, not a shame, to be his father, and I mean to 
try for the job, unless I find her, like you, lacking in virtue. Then 
of course her case will be like your own. If I find her bad, then I 
shall disbelieve in all women.” 

No earthly pen can picture the ache in Marie’s heart or the de- 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


87 


spair on her face as she says: “If I had never yielded to you you 
would think like that of me, would you not, Edward?” 

“Oh, yes, I did before it happened. Since, it has always been 
different. You should have looked out for that little ‘if,’ my dear.” 

“I wish I might have died before I heard you speak thus. Why 
did you give me such good care if you love another ?” 

“Oh, you are human, you know; I couldn’t do less. As for your 
dying* y°n won’t, and if you should, what then? Are you ready? 
You know the good Book tells us ‘after death the judgment.’ You 
was once a Sunday school girl. You ought to know all about it.” 

“If I died would you care, Edward?” 

“Oh, yes; I am always sorry to hear of such happenings. But the 
responsibility rests with the guilty party, you know.” 

“If you find this lady false will you ever marry?” 

“Oh, I may. But not her. Let me tell you, if you ever put her 
wise to our affair it is all off for you and I. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, I do. I think if you planned it you could ruin any one 
who loved you. No one else could have laid me low.” 

“No, if you were really straight you would be so, no matter 
who or what. Any time you don’t like my talk, just flare up and I 
go for good.” 

How she withers under his independent, unhidden scorn. But 
the desire to die only shows her how very much alive she is. She 
finally gains enough composure to answer: “I accept your terms. 
When do I go to work?” 

“No hurry at all. Better have your mother come first and see 
you and the babe. I can board here for the week, too, or we can all 
go somewhere else and board while she is here. Then we can invent 
a tale of divorce and parting for her benefit.” 

“No. Mother has been mixed in this abominable lie long enough. 

o o 


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It goes no further. If I tell her anything again I tell her all and tell 
it straight. I think of doing that anyway.” 

“All right. Do as you like about that.” 

“Where is my place? I go to work Monday morning.” 

“I would not be in a hurry, if I were you.” 

“I have decided. I, too, am glad not to work in your store.” 
“Very well. I will let you know Saturday where you work. So 
good-bye; I must go.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE LAW STUDENT. 

Jack Harsh, quick to see Peggy’s liking for a city life, casts about 
for a suitable location for himself. As he has saved a few thousand 
dollars, and has a fair eighty acre farm clear, he feels at liberty to 
invest the cash as his fancy shall dictate. So he enters law school, 
and leads a quiet, steady, uneventful life, save that he leads his 
classes and goes by leaps and bounds, and when Peggy consented to 
become his wife she expected some day to go back to the humdrum 
of farm life and make a good wife, for “would she not have Jack and 
his love?” she reasoned, “and what was all this restlessness good for 
anyway?” little knowing that the day following her arrival here 
Jack was enrolled as a law student, or that ’twas his and mother’s 
joy to keep that as a surprise for Peggy, and that mother kept him 
posted on the home news. But time is moving on toward the day 
when Jack wants her to become his bride. Meantime he has found a 
place in the office of Brady & Brady, lawyers of no mean ability, 
where he can serve them and see the workings of the things he 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


89 


studies. Furthermore he gets a small salary of $12.00 per week, 
which helps him very materially to save his cash. He rented his 
farm for cash rent, and with it bought a lot in one of the north 
additions, and now has almost completect a modern eight-room cot¬ 
tage, perfect in all its appointments. Here he plans to take his wife. 
He visits Peggy regularly, but aims to keep his plans secret 
until the dovecot is complete. One more week and it will be fin¬ 
ished. Then he will tell her all and show her the cot that is, not tell 
her of a dream that is to be, for this is Jack. ‘'Make the ideal real.” 
Peggy meanwhile is saving all she can, so as to add the little touches 
of home on the farm—that which she fears Jack will think foolish 
to buy. Already she has quite a stock of curtains and bedding and 
linen and dishes, all of which she has planned again and again for 
John’s farm house at home. Imagine her surprise when one noon 
going out to lunch she wandered beyond her usual ken and saw Jack, 
citizen fashion, emerge from a restaurant. As he did not see her 
she went in for lunch, and on inquiry learned that the young man 
who just left was Mr. Harsh, a law student, working for the law 
firm of Brady & Brady. This was all she needed to make her guess 
his plans, and to do some quick planning herself. On returning to 
the store she obtained leave of absence for the next day from 11 
o’clock on. How the morning dragged. She could scarce keep her 
mind on her work at all. Finally eleven comes and she is off. 
Hastening up Illinois street she waits in a business room across the 
street until she sees Mr. Jack enter and find his table. Then in she 
goes, scarcely touching the pavement, but rather walking on air, for 
her mind has several hours agone pictured all the joyous compan¬ 
ionships missed by not knowing he was there. She has seen in her 
mind’s eye the glad surprise in Jack’s eyes when he finds he is dis¬ 
covered. When she enters and sits down he is reading and waiting 
for his order, and does not see her until a waiter comes to take her 


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order. At tlie sound of her voice he starts, looks and smiles just as 
she had pictured he would, and the waiter stands agape while their 
hands clasp in more than friendship across the table, Peggy speaks 
first: “Mr. Harsh, how do you like the law and the prophets?” 

Then Jack laughs his merry, rippling laugh and says, “So my 
little girl has spied me out, I see. Well, maybe I can surprise you 
yet as completely as you have me. And by the way, waiter, hustle 
to the kitchen and check my order, and bring us two turkey din¬ 
ners,” saying which he handsomely tipped the waiter. 

Peggy said, “Oh, Jack; you ought not have done that. Can you 
afford it? You are surely the most perfect and capable man that 
ever lived. Here I planned to so surprise you that you would be 
utterly speechless, and in two seconds you are complete master of 
the situation.” 

Jack’s face looked so grave that Peggy was almost afraid he was 
disappointed, but he said: “Thank you, sweetheart. May our God 
so help me to live that as my wife you cannot even for one brief 
moment think less of me. The words you now spoke were the 
sweetest my ears have yet heard. I shall never forget them while 
memory lives.” 

And so they talk on as only two can whose love is pure as that 
of brother and sister, and yet as consuming as life itself. Dinner 
being ended, Jack says, “Now I want to complete our surprises. I 
have your wedding present to show you, and then I want to ask you 
a very great favor. It is this—I want you to reconsider the time 
of our marriage and be ready in two weeks instead of two months. 
You can board Irene if you like. In fact I think you had better 
insist on it. I do not trust that Schilling at all, and furthermore I 
hear of him some very bad tales, and if Irene was from under your 
care God knows what might befall her. Besides I have always felt 
ashamed of that tacky old place where you live.” 


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91 


“Oh, Jack, it is quite comfortable inside. And don’t you think 
we had better stay there and save expenses? If I quit work and 
you are in school we will need to save all we can, and I would not 
like to charge Irene heavy. I, like you, doubt Schilling, but could 
not, if I must, tell why. I think he will try to keep Irene from 
going with me. Several times lately I have caught him trying to 
make trouble between us.” 

“Just as I thought. Well, girlie, leave it to me. And don’t you 
worry. I feel more than a match for him anywhere.” 

“But Jack, he took Irene from you.” 

Jack had just rung for the car to stop, and as he took Peggy’s 
hand in his to help her off the car his grip was so firm that tears 
started to her eyes from the hurt. On they go, up Graceland avenue, 
and Jack is so very quiet that Peggy thinks him real angry at what 
she has said. Now he takes her arm in that same vise-like grip 
and turns her into the yard of what she thinks is the most pictur¬ 
esque house she has ever seen, and he says, “My lady, this is your 
wedding present from me. It is clear, and I mean to make the deed 
in your name when we are married.” And so saying he swings open 
the hall door for her to enter, but she stands agape, taking in the 
beauty of the outside structure, and saying, “Oh, Jack! Did you 
plan it?” 

“Yes, with an eye to what I thought you would like. Why don’t 
you look inside? You don't expect to live on the roof, do you?” 

Laughingly they enter and go from room to room until all is 
thoroughly inspected, upstairs and down, and Peggy’s cheeks are 
like the pink of the rose and her eyes like stars. As they start to 
go into the hall Jack so surprises Peggy as to almost frighten her 
when he sets her down on a seat built by the stairway, and putting 
his arm about her hugs her so violently that she scarce can breathe, 
and he says, “I want here and now to tell you, once for all and for- 


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ever, Edward Schilling or any other man never took Irene or any 
other woman away from Jack Harsh. I never gave but one woman 
the chance to accept me as hers, and that woman has promised to 
do so. Now when she retracts what she said about Schilling and 
Irene I will loosen my grasp. Till then I am quite comfortable.” 

Peggy answers quickly in the old way of the “Barrens”: “Oh, 
Jack, back she goes.” 

Quickly his grasp loosens and he holds her in a most gentle and 
loving embrace, saying, “And now won’t you consent to hurry our 
wedding ?” 

For one long minute they look earnestly into each other’s eyes. 
Then Peggy answers simply but earnestly, “Why, Jack, if you desire 
it and can afford it, I will make it the first, instead of the last of 
October.” 

“Then,” says Jack, “we’d better go over and furnish it. You 
know a few weeks soon go by, and we have much to do.” 

So over and over again they go, and by the time everything is 
planned and listed both are tired and hungry and discover that it is 
almost time for Irene to be at home, and as Peggy’s dread of Schil¬ 
ling has always caused her to insist that she and Irene be prompt 
with each other, they hurry from the house and back on Massa¬ 
chusetts avenue to what was, but can never again be home to Peggy. 
Jack goes along to help break the news to Irene, and to insist that 
she stay with Peggy. And well that he did, for as he and Peggy 
alight from the front of the car at home, Edward and Irene alight 
from the rear. As they all meet at the little wooden gate the men 
search each other for the soul, and find it. Neither is deceived. Jack 
knows just how low Edward would willingly stoop to outwit him, 
while Edward knows that his cunning devices would be like an open 
book to Jack—and yet they all busy themselves getting supper and 
planning the coming event, Edward more in awe of Jack as he 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


93 


realizes his hidden power, Jack having more contempt for him as he 
realizes the shallowness of his wooden pate. Before the evening 
closes Peggy is sure that her Jack not only could have won Irene, 
but the queen herself if he had decided to do so, for everywhere he 
is master. When Edward slyly suggests Irene keeping that house, 
Jack squarely and boldly says: “That ring I see her wear I think is 
of your giving. If you are sincere in that you would not let her 
stay if she wanted to. Soon she would be counted your mistress 
and looked on with scorn, and then you would not have her for a 
wife.” 

Edward’s look of guilt amounted almost to one of terror, and he 
dimly heard Irene say, “Thank you, Jack; no brother could be kinder 
to me than you have always been.” 

Jack made answer. “Well, Irene, I never had a sister or you a 
brother, and I always had for you a BROTHER’S love, and so long 
as you and Peggy continue good friends I shall still be your brother, 
but who wants my friendship must not worry my precious wife. 
And this remember, Irene—a man who truly loves you will not ask 
or permit you to do anything that endangers your reputation, much 
less your character. As for the price at our house, you and Peggy 
for that. She is welcome to make it what she will. But as your 
brother I beg of you, don’t do anything that gives you the appear¬ 
ance of a ‘kept lady.’ ” 

“Edward, do you hear what my brother says? And that is just 
what I am going to do.” 

“Very well,” says Edward, “I think you are wise, and beg your 
pardon for my thoughtless suggestion. But you know I keep this 
house for country girls who work in our store—those that I specially 
favor.” 

“Has a good girl ever lived here alone?” 

“Yes; the last one before you was a Miss Jones.” 


94 


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“How came she to move?” 

“Her. Oh, she is sick in the hospital.” 

“Poor girl, this will give her a chance to have it again. Is she 
still sick?” 

“Well, she is partly recovered, and goes to work next week, I be¬ 
lieve.” 

“In what department ? And what hospital is she in ? Peggy and I 
will go and see her tomorrow.” 

“Well, she is in a private hospital. I do not think they care for 

callers, and I think she said she was going to -’s. I can’t 

say right now what department.” 

“Poor girl,” says Irene. “She might never have gotten sick if 
she had not tried to live alone. I shall surely hunt her down. I 
pity her so.” 

Edward is so embarrassed as to be almost frenzied, while Jack 
gives a hearty ringing laugh and says: “Well, you’re all right, Irene. 
Do it, and I will help you. She may need us. It looks queer they 
should object to two such girls as you and Peggy visiting her, and 
then they let men come. Seeing I am a man, maybe I can visit her.” 

“All right, Irene, my girl,” says Edward. “I could have taken you 
to see her, but now that you and your big brother have taken it so 
seriously, hide and seek we go. And just for amusement, find her if 
you can. Her name is Marie Jones, and she is in a private hospital 
on North - street. Now go it.” 

“That ought to make it easy, Jack,” says Irene. 

“That depends,” said Jack, “on the purpose and character of the 
hospital.” 

“Well, search it all out,*” says Edward; “and now I must be 
going. I wish my bonnie bird and I were ready to make it a double 
wedding, but,” he added quickly, “circumstances alter cases, don’t 
they, little one?” Lifting Irene’s chin he kissed her, and was gone. 




FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


95 


The girls spent the rest of the evening in wild, speculation con¬ 
cerning Marie Jones, until they almost felt impelled to go now and 
hunt her down. Jack seems to he reading, but really all the while 
he is interestedly listening, for he thinks he knows perfectly all 
about it, and in reality he has heard before an inkling of Marie 
Jones. 

When a woman who really loves begins to say, “I—do—wonder—•” 
the wedge of doubt is about to enter, and this was a good, portion 
of Irene’s suggestion, but what she wondered she never told. 

Finally Jack threw down his paper, saying, “You girls take 
warning, and do not go to any hospital unless I take you there, and 
then insist you go together. We understand each other. Let this 
sad lesson teach us to cling closer together and be more, not less, 
careful. I could tell you all about it if I would, but this I say— 
’tis not fit for your pure ears to hear. And now,” taking up the 
Bible, “let us read what the Strongs are reading tonight.” He read 
the First Psalm, and they prayed, briefly, but honestly and earn¬ 
estly, and Jack went home to think and think, and the girls went to 
bed to talk most of the night and awake late next morning. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE CONSULTATION-A PLOT AND ITS FULFILLMENT. 

Angry, baffled, humiliated, but not whipped, Edward walked to 

the nearest drug store and called Mrs. Grass and Dr. -- and 

planned a strictly secret meeting at the home of Mrs. Grass. Soon 
they are all there, and the plotting begins. Edward told them as 
much of the evening’s conversation as he liked them to know, also 



96 


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of his betrothal to Irene. Furthermore, he made it real plain that 
Marie was greatly in his way, and must be disposed of. He sug¬ 
gested that Mrs. Grass get her an “easy position, you understand,” and 
charge her board for the babe, then sublet it to some poor woman 
who was of the kind to care for such a job. That would still keep 
Marie in their hands, but would free him, and he must be free. He 
said, “Now, doctor, you see that she is in good trim. Mrs. Grass 
will do the rest. Don’t fool about this, for this Jack is on my trail, 
and I want to foil him. I trust you two to help, but remember, no 
bungling. What I pay depends on that—do you both understand?” 
So saying he was off. Mrs. Grass and the doctor talk almost in a 
whisper for a few moments, and he departs to return in the morning. 
Mrs. Grass wends her way up to Marie’s room and softly enters, 
saying, “Excuse me, dear. I came up to see the babe. May I take 
it on my lap. You know I have not really seen the little dear yet.”3 

Marie is too surprised to protest even if she had been wide awake 
instead of half asleep. Now comes a speech that thoroughly arouses 
her. It is this from Mrs. Grass: 

“What a sweet babe you have. What a shame you cannot keep 
it.” 

“Why can I not keep it, I should like to know?” 

“Oh, my dear, how could you? It costs money, you know, to 
keep a babe like that, and what won’t it cost to keep him in school, 
etc.—all, you know, that becomes a child of his station, and you 
would not want to bring him up a nobody.” 

“But I am going to work, so that I can keep him,” says Marie, 
her eyes filling with tears. 

“How much can you make a week?” 

“Well, I made ten dollars when I worked for Edward, besides—” 
and her sentence was finished with a blush of shame. 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


97 


“Well, let me tell you. If you make six now you may be very 
thankful and it is more likely to be four or five."’ 

“Surely Edward will help me bring him up.” 

“I thought you planned as much. Let me tell you, Edward is 
soon to marry a girl who took your place. All but—besides,” and 
Mrs. Grass gave a musical laugh that gave no hint of the demon 
lurking in her heart, and Marie burst out crying, the heartbroken 
cry that none but such as she can know. Mrs. Grass arose, put the 
babe back in her arms, kissed her hot forehead, gave her a cool drink, 
and said, “My dear, I came up to help you, not to break your poor 
heart. God knows and I know you have suffered more than enough, 
and he ought to marry you and let you keep your little son. He 
knows quite well you are a woman far above the kind who bring 
suit and all that sort of stuff, for then ’twould get into the papers 
and be read at home, and he knows you would not want to set a 
bad example before your sisters and break your mother s heart.” 

“I love this tiny boy at my breast more than all the world be¬ 
side, myself thrown in.” 

“Ah, that is it; that is the way your mother loves you, and she 
gave you an honorable birth because she loved you. She no doubt 
had temptations as strong as your own, but she looked ahead for 
your sake. No doubt ’twill kill her when she knows all you have 
done, and you can be sure he will spare neither money nor effort if 
you go to law with him. He is greatly taken with this other girl.” 

“As you talk I seem to see myself as I really am, as black as mid¬ 
night, and mother, dear, patient, trusting mother—no, I cannot 
bring her pain. My darling baby boy—I cannot let him go. My 
God! what shall I do?” she cried as she stared wildly about the 
room, too helpiess and heartsick for thoughts or tears. “I will take 
my child and go see the other girl. And for his sake she will surely 
leave his father free to help me keep him.” 


98 


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“Why should you do that? Edward already told her about you. 
Ail you would get from that, Edward would take the child, and she 
would bring it up to call her mother, and it would never know you 
lived.” 

“Don’t you think if I told her it would be different?” 

“Yes, I think she would scorn you as one who would probably try 
to wreck her home. You know what you would have said before 
you permitted Edward to be on such familiar terms with you, if one 
had arisen with such a tale.” 

Marie groaned, rather than spoke the words, “Oh, God! You are 
right. But is there no hope for me in all this wide, unfriendly 
world?” 

“As for hope, I have known little about it since the day I stood 
where you now stand, outside of the hope for gold. Of that I have 
received, more than I deserve. In the morning, I will tell you how 
I did it. If you take the route I took you can keep your babe and 
need not ask any one’s help. Now you must go to sleep.” 

Marie lay in her bed under the strain of those who watch for the 
morning. Not one wink of sleep had come to her eyelids and gladly 
she welcomed the first ray of light, for not once, but many times, 
she had gone over it all—childhood, girlhood, her meeting Edward, 
their acquaintance in minute detail, her hopes, her disappointments, 
her quarrel with the butler (for she had followed Edward’s advice 
with respect to the butler), and last of all her disillusionment. Long 
before day she had decided to take whatever way Mrs. Grass had 
taken, even if it meant her own destruction, provided it meant for 
her to keep the babe, so when Mrs. Grass came in with a tray of 
most tempting food and a glass of wine, she found Marie waiting 
for her, and more interested in what she had to tell than in the 
food she brought. But she would not talk so long as a morsel re¬ 
mained of what was brought. The food was quickly devoured, but 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


99 


Marie balked at the wine, saying, “I have done many evils in my 
short life, but I have always held sacred my temperance pledge. I 
must not break it now.” 

Very well, says Mrs. Grass, “Not a word so long as any food 
or drink remains on this tray,” and she arises to go. 

Marie, who has so often of late choked her conscience, does it 
now, and scarce knowing what she does she hastily lifts the glass 
and drains it, dregs and all, and gives Mrs. Grass a look of dumb 
appeal, such as an animal driven to bay gives its pursuers. Mrs. 
Grass gives a ringing, hollow laugh, and returning sits down and 
tells Marie, the following tale: 

“My dear, the situation is this: You have been very foolish ever 
to yield yourself to any man in the way you have to Edward. So 
far no one at your home suspicions you. If you took your child and 
went home they would all find you out, and you would probably 
come away in disgust a little later anyway. When I was young I 
made the same mistake you have made. I never went home to stay. 
I well remember the time I stood where you stand this morning. I 
saw an advertisement in the paper reading something like this: 
‘Easy and pleasant employment for young lady. Good money to the 
right party.’ 

“I answered and got the place. I will not go into details here as 
to what my work was, but I made money and paid for the keep of 
my darling babe. It only lived one year, and I now believe it to be 
in heaven. Then I thought I would change my way and be a Chris¬ 
tian, but I failed. In the meantime the man responsible for my 
ruin married me. We live^d a cat and dog life for a couple of years, 
and I went back to my old way, and by hook and crook, one of 
which isi to help girls just as I am helping you now, I have made 
some money.” 

“Could I do what you did?” said Marie. 



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“Oh, yes; I mean to take you this morning and get you a place 
if you approve of my plan.” 

“You really think Edward means to marry this other girl?” 

“He told me so last night, and was fearfully worried because you 
and the babe were on his hands, and he felt you both to be a burden¬ 
some nuisance.” 

“Where did you see him?” 

“He was here, my dear, for some time, and never even asked how 
either of you were. His whole talk was a worry of how to be rid 
of you.” ' 

Worried, perplexed, dazed, Marie answers, “I will do as you say.” 

“You are wise,” says Mrs. Grass. “Now I will tell you. When 
we go to the police to have you registered, don’t try to deceive 
them, for they will look up all you tell, and if what you tell is not 
true they will not let you enter the life I plan for you.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Grass,” cries Marie in alarm, “jmu surely are not try¬ 
ing to get me in jail. Edward said if they found out the things you 
say I must tell, they would lock me up.” 

“So they would, had they found you as you were, but when you 
are registered you obey the regulations, one of which is to go quietly 
and peaceably at stated times and pay your fine, and thereby avoid 
arrest. You see many men who are supposed to be of spotless 
character visit these houses, and for them this system was organ¬ 
ized. The police are disgusted with it themselves, and have no end 
of trouble with it, but men who pose as being far better than you 
or I demand it, for you see so long as the police have track of us 
and make us come under their surveilance, those men are never 
afraid of arrest from a house where the fines are paid. Furthermore, 
if we attempted to tell the wives or sweethearts what we know, we 
would be jailed as soon as the royal specimen of the male creation 
reported us, and more than likely the whole house at which we 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


101 


stayed would go with us to jail. Otherwise we could come and go 
as we please—lead that life, and stop it when and where we please.” 

“I think I partly understand. Will I not be at liberty to change 
my life when I please?” 

“No, you must register out when you want to quit. Otherwise 
you will be arrested and taken back to the house you leave. When 
a woman goes as far as you and I have gone, she is always sup¬ 
posed to have some scheme up her sleeve when she starts to do bet¬ 
ter, and many times she has, therefore she must go to the police 
and explain how she is going to make her living, and they go and 
investigate and see if she is telling the truth. If she can prove she 
has a way to live decently they let her go, provided she is positive 
she is going to do right, and no one can give cause why he or she 
objects to her going. Even if you marry, your intended husband 
must go with you and show that he is able to support you honestly.” 

“But does not that hinder many having a chance to change? 
Would many men run the gauntlet of such a eourse to get a wife? 

And if I decided, after being there a while, to go to -’s to 

work, and I had to go to the police and register out, after they went 
there and asked all kinds of questions, do you think I would get the 
place?” 

“Not many ever care to change. They get so lazy, and used to 
carousing at night and sleeping late in the morning, and being waited 
on, and so willess thatnhey would stay anywhere so long as they 
have something to eat and drink and a wild, gay time. They are no 
more fitted to be good wives than the men who run to see them are 
fitted to be good husbands and fathers. If I had my say the men 
who visit us should be registered, too. Then women could go to the 
police and find what sort of husband they were getting.” 






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“Oh, Mrs. Grass,” says Marie, stretching her arms appealingly to 
that lady, “I am so blind and sick, and I cannot think. What shall 
I do?” 

“Oh, stir yourself. It’s only that wine you drank. Here, put on 
your coat and hat. The carriage is waiting for us outside,” and so 
saying she urged the girl into a long cloak and into the carriage. 

Marie asked in a sleepy, half-dazed way. “My baby! won’t we 
take him?” 

“Never mind the baby! he is all right,” says Mrs. Grass, as she 
half lifts, half pushes her into the carriage, and bangs the door, and 
off they go to register Marie. 

The police captain has quite a struggle to impress Marie with 
the importance of the step she is taking, for by the time they reach 
the station she is recklessly talkative and tells in harrowing detail 
of her life with Edward, and is registered and assigned to a house 
on Senate avenue, whose madam has been sadly wanting girls, and 
especially country girls. So again they prepare to go—Mrs. Grass, 
Marie and Madam Molly, but Marie hangs back, saying she wants 
to kiss the chief. 

Mrs. Grass explains, “Too much wine this morning.” 

“What if the wine was inspected, Mrs. Grass. Do you think its 
purity would take the prize at the world’s food show, or would it be 
found drugged? A soft furred kitten you are, Mrs. Grass, but if 
his Satanic majesty can head you off, in my opinion he will get up 
and dust. Now take this girl and make her two-fold more the child 
of hell than you two are yourselves. Call her Clara Blake, and 
mind, no breaking of the regulations,” says the chief. 

And so they go by the way least observed, and enter the car¬ 
riage and take Marie to the house on Senate avenue, stopping by 
the way to order an ice cream soda for each of them and a special 
one for Mane. After she eats hers she is once more quiet, and they 




FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


103 


have to hurry to get her inside before a deep sleep overtakes her. 
Madam Molly and her porter get her up to her room and in bed, 
array her in strange garments, and Madam Molly takes her clothes 
and locks them up and locks the door to the hall room in which 
they place Marie. We leave her a while, dead to the world, asleep 
to all the dangers that surround her, asleep to the cry of her babe 
in the distance, asleep to all of good. 

Mrs. Grass, as she lolls in her carriage, opens her purse and care¬ 
fully inspects the two one-hundred-dollar bank notes, and says 
softly, under her breath, “Not half enough for the risk I take.” 
Then as conscience strives to assert itself in behalf of the imprisoned 
girl on Senate avenue, she sits up straight, stamps her foot, and 
with clenched fists, says, “But I was sold. She is no better.” The 
driver stops and replies: “Beg pardon, ma’am. What did you say?” 

Quickly she answers: “Wait for me at Schilling’s store, and be 
quick about it, too, I say.” 

“Very well, ma’am.” And off he goes at a good pace to obey 
orders. For well he knows her temper, and well he guesses what it 
is all about. At Schilling’s she collects from Edward fifteen twenty- 
dollar gold pieces, and goes home, intoxicated with the gold her 
morning efforts have brought her. After drinking heavily of the 
champagne from her closet she, too, slumbers heavily, dead to the 
cries of the babe up stairs. Edward at the store was very happy, 
for was he not a free man again, and now he could marry Irene on 
the day of Jack’s wedding if he wanted to. “But hold,” his 
thoughts ran, “I must test her first and know she is true blue. 
But I do hope she stands the test,” and thus his thoughts ran, and 
so he lingered near her counter in a most loving attitude, and al¬ 
ways where he could observe her. He was happier than for many 
days, for he mistook the intoxication of success for the dove of 
peace. And so the day wore away. 





/ 


104 FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 

CHAPTER XXI. 


TIIE BUTLER. 

You may have wondered, my reader, why one so friendly as the 
butler had shown himself to be in the past permitted all that is 
here recorded, but as you remember, Marie promised Edward to try 
to break that friendship. She had succeeded, not that he loved her 
less, but Marie had talked to him on this wise, on the morning fol¬ 
lowing her interview with Edward: 

“Mr. Butler, I wish to speak to you for a few moments, so come 
into my room, will you please?” 

He came quickly and gladly, and was surprised to find Mrs. 
Grass already there. 

“Now, sir,” said Marie, “I find you have been meddling yourself 
in my affairs unbidden, and have grieviously insulted the father of 
my child, and otherwise annoyed me by your undesired attentions. 
Now, sir, I ask you, yes, I command you, never to darken the door 
of my room again. Your presence here at all is obnoxious to me, 
and if I had my way Mrs. Grass would drive you out like the dog 
you are. Now go!” 

“But, my dear lady, I—” 

“Not one word will I hear from you. Go, I say; and know that 
our friendship is forever a thing of the past.” 

“Did Schilling-” 

Not a word from you. I do what I am doing because I despise 
you, and to give my own self pleasure. Now go, lest you tempt me 
to do you violence. And never while you live breathe my name to 
a living soul, not even in your inmost thoughts. Forget you ever 




FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


105 


knew me or mine. ’Tis the only line of action whereby I can ever 
have even a thought of you except in intense hatred. 

The butler gave her one pitying, searching look and turned and 
left the room, never going any nearer to it than compelled by his 
many duties, for while he was the butler, he was called upon to 
perform his own and many other tasks in that house. But on the 
morning recorded in the previous chapter he slept quite late, and 
was aroused by hearing the baby’s cry. Dreading Mrs. Grass and 
her temper he hastily dressed and came from hia room, just in time 
to hear Mrs. Grass say petulantly, “Here, Butler, get me some 
champagne! I am tired out. I have been out all this dreary morn¬ 
ing in the rain, and I think from your look you just got up. Now, 
hump around, sir. Why did you sleep so late, anyway? 

“I cannot tell you, Mrs. Grass. When I awoke I had such a 
queer ache in my head, and I seem yet unable to think, and I had 
a dim sense of something wrong. As you know, I never slept like 
this before. Could it be some one was here and drugged me? My 
mouth tastes so queer, and my room was almost stilling until I 
threw wide the window. And the babe has cried incessantly. What s 
it all about, anyway?” 

“You make yourself very common, John Butler, when you talk 
like that. Don’t cringe. Just say, ‘Mrs. Grass, I have been here so 
long that I take the liberty of doing just as I please. Therefore I 
took a nap this morning.’ ” 

“Mrs. Grass,” said John, “you know that is not true. I would 
not be here only that I have faithfully served, and I am heartily 
ashamed of this morning’s lapse, and will try to not let it occur 

again.” . _ 

As they talked he served her the champagne. When she finished 

drinking, she said: “You are quite an humble servant, John. Just 
told me what I said was untrue, and that I knew it. Now since you 

4 







106 


FRESH FROM THE BARREN'S 


are so obedient, please go upstairs and tell Marie to shut that in¬ 
fant’s mouth, as I want to take a nap.” 

“Mrs. Grass, I cannot do as you say.” 

“What an obedient servant you prove. Have you rheumatism, or 
paralysis, that you can’t go, seeing you want to serve so well?” 

“Mrs. Grass,” said John, straightening, “You heard what Marie 
told me, and though I am poor I am a man, and have never yet put 
my hand on that which made me ashamed of my own reflection in 
the glass, but I would be were I to go to Miss Jones’ room after 
what she told me.” 

“Oh, fie. You sicken me with your fine spun theories. I would 
test you with a good raise for going, only I know that every man 
has his price, and I fear you would take me up.” 

“Mrs. Grass, you are mistaken. Some people and some things 
are priceless. I have never put my hand to the ruin of a woman, 
for I consider virtue priceless, and—” 

Stop!” cried Mrs. Grass, in loud, angry tones. “Stop right 
there! You rat! You guttersnipe! You can’t belittle me like 
that with your high-flown talk. I will kill you where you stand! 
Who dares say I ruin women? Repeat it—1 dare you!” 

Mrs. Grass,” said John in a conciliatory tone, “I never meant 
a word against you. I only meant to line up where I stand.” 

“Oh, well, maybe I said too much. Well, if that youngster gets 
oo loud do as I told you. My champagne makes me a little blis- 
tery ” and so saying she lay down and soon was in the heavy sleep 
before mentioned, and the butler went about his work, and the babe 
cried and slept. Many times John listened at the door when baby 
cried, for the soft crooning of Marie’s voice. It never came, and as 
night was coming on and baby’s cry became weak from hunger and 
piteous from neglect, he swallowed his pride and tapped lightly on 
the door. No answer. He tried the knob and the door swung open 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


107 


and to his astonished gaze, the mother bird was gone, only the 
shivering, half-starved fledgling left behind. John stood for a while, 
too dazed to believe his eyes. Then he lifted the sobbing babe and 
tenderly wrapping him in the blanket hugged him to his own empty, 
hungry, aching heart, and somehow a father’s love came in and 
flooded his soul, and he vowed to protect and save the child if he 
could. Looking him over he found a peculiar heart-shaped birth¬ 
mark on his left arm. Of this he made a note, for, said he, half 
to himself, half to the babe: “Something very much wrong here. 
I need to know you, sonny, anywhere I find you.” 

Putting him back in the bed he went down to tell Mrs. Grass, 
whom he found still asleep. Going out to the cook he ordered some 
warm milk and went hastily to the nearest drug store and got two 
nursing bottles, and in less time than it takes to tell it he had the 
babe tugging desperately at the warm milk, and yelling lustily when 
for a space he removed it lest it kill itself by over-feeding. 

By the time Mrs. Grass was awake he had the babe warm and 
comfortable and rosy, sleeping soundly to make up for the hours of 
hunger and cold. How anxiously he watched lest it sleep the sleep 
of exhaustion. Now he hears Mrs. Grass’ voice and goes down 
stairs, for while he dare not accuse her, he somehow blames Mrs. 
Grass that Marie is gone. So he stands and looks at her with an 
accusing eye, unti^she says: “Well, what do you want now?” 

He answers simply, “To know why Miss Jones does not come 
back to her child.” 

“Ask her, not me. When did she go ?” 

“That is what I hoped you knew.” 

“You blockhead, you know I have been asleep all day.” 

“But I half think she was gone when we talked this morning.” 

“Maybe she was. I went early to town and was gone some time, 
and you just got up when I came in, I believe, so maybe she was. 







108 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


Are you sure she is gone? Let us go and search. Maybe some¬ 
thing has happened.” So together they go and search, and of course 
do not find her. 

Then Mrs. Grass says, “Oh, well, John, it looks like the old story 
of a thankless girl deserting her babe. My social standing prevents 
me making a noise about it, but slyly I will look for her. In the 
meantime I will take the babe to the orphanage, and some day, 
when she comes howling and ranting about her sweet babe, it will 
be where she can neither desert nor disgrace it.” 

Somehow John’s indignation rises mountains high, but for the 
sake of the babe he controls himself and says: “Please, ma’am, let 
me take it, and your name need never be linked with his.” 

“You know you dare not call him Schilling.” 

“Trust me. ma’am, to see that neither yours nor Schilling’s name 
get connected with him. When shall I take him?” 

For one long minute they look eye to eye, Mrs. Grass thinking 
his answers show fine scorn and cutting sarcasm. John faces her 
calm and undisturbed, so far as she can see, so she answers, “Oh, 
tomorrow will do. She may stroll back tonight sometime. I re¬ 
lease you, John, from duty if you wish to look after him.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Grass, but suppose the mother comes back. 
What will she say to me?” 

“You refer her to me. I think there is very little danger of her 
coming back. She is too common for such fine feeling. If she 
started back some foolishness would no doubt stop her by the way.” 

John colored. “Please, ma’am, do not speak so. I love the babe. 
I greatly regard the mother. I somehow connect Schilling with her 
disappearance, don’t you?” 

Mrs. Grass parleys for time as a guilty, sickening, stinging sen¬ 
sation floods her soul, and fear lest he knows more than he is tell¬ 
ing and maybe he knows her part and where the mother is, but she 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


109 

answers: “I would think it to his interest to bring her back, 
wouldn’t you?” 

“I am not sure, ma’am.” And John, after a searching look at 
her, turns and walks away, and up the stair, where he spends the 
night hoping for and yet fearing the mother’s return, starting at 
the slightest noise, settling back with a sickening fear when he finds 
it is not her. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE BABE AND TIIE BTJTLEK. 

While John struggled with the helpless babe, Mrs. Grass was 
stealthily communicating with the father, who gave her three crisp 
one-hundred-dollar bills, saying, “You must bring me the butler’s 
receipt for this amount from me for the babe. Do it this way, Mrs. 
Grass,” says Edward “Have him receipt you, and you shall receipt 
me.” 

So when Mrs. Grass heard John stirring in the morning, pre¬ 
paring the babe £or departure, she climbed the stairs and very 
graciously offered her services to help in the preparations. For Ed¬ 
ward had cautioned her to be sure to find out where he was taking 
the babe, and if possible some mark by which they would know 
him, “For, he said, “you know many times false claims arise when 
an estate is being divided.” 

She had promised if there was no mark to make one, and for 

this very purpose Dr. -was secreted in the house at the time. 

She sent the butler for an extra supply of bottles, and as she had 
so generously supplied money for the care of the babe he felt he 



no 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


could trust her to care for it until his return. He was scarcely out 

of the house when Dr. - entered the room, and quietly baring 

the babe’s upper extremities he branded the letter “S” indelibly 
in the tender flesh on the under side of the upper arm. A wild 
scream of pam, despite the dosing it had been given, sounded out 
like a clarion call for help, but he quickly dressed the wound so as to 
stop the pain, heal the wound, and still insure the scar, then left 
the room and remained in hiding until the butler and the babe were 
gone. Then he came forth and laughed and joked with Mrs. Grass 
about Marie and her condition, and about how nicely the wine he 
fixed that morning had “done the business,” and so they boasted 
and drank, while the coachman delivered the butler and the babe at 
the orphanage. As soon as he saw them enter he turned around 
and drove home. No sooner was he out of sight than John 
Butler left the orphanage, saying he did not like the terms, and 
would go back to the lady from whence he came and see what he 
could do there. The car passes Mrs. Grass’ coach on the way, and 
the coachman waves to John, who returns the wave and nods and 
smiles, but answers the signal to get off'the car and in the cab that 
he does not care to do so. What a surprise if the coachman could 
only know that John, seeing him ahead, had the babe on the seat 
beside him comfortably resting, for he looked to see that both his 
hands were free. Now the cab is far behind, and John boards a car 
that carries him far out into the country, to a clean but unpreten¬ 
tious farm cottage, at the door of which he knocks, and then enters 
without waiting for his call to be answered. As he comes in at the 
ront door a clean, fat, good-natured woman comes in at the back 
oor. She exclaims: “Well, John Wescott! Where on earth did 
you come from, and where did you get that?” While sayin- this 

thlt g her 7 ta ^ es f .^ he + bal)e ’ unwra P s a *d fondles it, scarce noticing 
that her guest still stands or that her question is unanswered & 



FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


111 


John makes bold to seat himself, and begins telling the babe’s 
story, for this fat, motherly woman is none other than his sister 
Mary, whose heart takes in all the tots, but who has none of her 
own. By the time she hears it all she is weeping over the babe as if 
her heart would break, and loves and pities it as only such a woman 
knows how. John then asks her to keep the child for him, and she 
gladly consents. Their bargain is made, and he pays her the three 
crisp one-hundred dollar bills we have already mentioned, which she 
reluctantly takes, saying, “I love him so, it seems wrong to charge 
for the care he gets, for you know I am well fixed for money. I 
have the farm clear and several thousands insurance, but I will 
keep it for him. I have been so lonely since Ed died. How I have 
needed this little man to keep me company,” and taking on a moth¬ 
er’s crooning voice, she says, “Yes, little man. Mother will never 
desert you; and you will be a big man; sure you will, sweetheart, 
and mother loves you now, honey,” and so running on she hugs him 
to her hungry, lonely mother heart, rocking and crooning as she 
talks. John watches silently, while a great peace floods his soul. 
Finally he says: 

“I tell you, Mary, I am sick of all the crookedness of that place. 
I, too, have saved some money. Why can’t I come too, and oversee 
the farm for you, and we live a quiet, Godly life here together, and 
bring him up as they should have done?” 

“Oh, if you only would, brother mine, I would be so very happy, 
for I so fear he will be stolen from me.” 

“Oh, never fear. They don’t know I have a sister. They think 
my name Butler. And I very much doubt your ability to make 
them acknowledge any relation between themselves and the child, 
though you tried ever so earnestly.” 

“Just the same I have a great fear in my heart for him. Tell 
me, brother mine, why did I never hear from you all these long 


112 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


years? You know you left tlie day following my wedding and Ed 
often wondered if it was some dislike for him that caused you never 
to come or write.” 

“On the contrary, I believed him to be a perfect gentleman, and 
ore worthy of your and my confidence, therefore I never felt urged 
to look about you; and truth, sister, I always feared you would try 
to find me and by some hook and crook get mixed with that crowd, 
and get into serious trouble. So taking a different name and never 
mentioning you gave me relief from that fear. You have no idea 
how tiresome they are, or how tricky.” 

“Why do you go back? I need you here to help with the farm 
and with him. You might not make so much money, but ’twould be 
more worth while.” 

“You’d better not repeat the offer. It tempts me.” 

“I repeat it three times,” said she, laughing. 

John sat silently considering for some time, and then said, “No, 
Mary. I must go back to clear their minds of the child. Then I will 
be back, and we together will do our best for him. What say you?” 

“Agreed. Only I somehow dread for you to go near them again. 
They might seek to do you great harm, and so hide all trace of the 
child.” 

“Oh, don’t worry. I feel equal to them and their tricks. Have 
proved myself so, again and again.” 

“But I fear for you. How soon will you return, and where shall 1 
look for you if you do not ? You haven’t yet told me their names or 
addresses.” 

“Whatever you do, don’t try to look for me if I am long return- 
ing. I don t want your name ever, or' his ever again in any way 
connected with theirs. If I thought you would, I would just say I 
will go now and forever, for many things might detain me for awhile. 
I may make a search for his mother. In fact I think I shall, and if 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


113 


I find her innocent I may marry her. For whether love or pity I 
cannot say, but somehow she strangely moves my heart.” 

“Brother mine, be careful. She must be very weak, from what 
you say, and I fear she would wreck your life.” 

“Have no fear. A reformed woman is as good as a reformed man, 
and if you say so I will not return if we marry.” 

“Oh, come back, of course. I want you more than I can tell. But 
do be careful.” 

“I will, and I surely hope God will bless you for your willingness 
to have her, Mary.” 

And so they plan, and talk of past, present and future. And 
such a dinner as Mary prepares, and how the hours fly. Now it is 
2:00 P. M., and John must go, for as he explains, “It will be your 
bed time when I get home, Mary.” 

So he leaves them, promising to try to be back in a week. When 
he is well on the way to Mrs. Grass’ his mind compares her freakish 
home with Mary’s good, quiet, Godly home, and he thinks, “Holy 
Father! I must be crazy to have wasted all these years there, when 
I might have been with Mary and could have helped Ed beside.” 

Mary also thinks and works and plans, and now when he alights 
from the interurban and starts his walk to the city car line she is 
just getting baby reacty for bed, and about the time he boards a city 
car she is on her knees committing them all to an All-wise Heavenly 
Father who never said, “Seek ye me” in vain, and when he alights 
at Washington and Illinois streets to get a car out to Mrs. Grass’ 
home, Mary is sleeping the sleep of the just. What is this? The 
corner man halts him, and asks, “Are you not Mr. Butler, and are you 
not in the employ of Mrs. Grass, of number North - 
street?” 

“Yes, sir,” says John. “Has any accident befallen her?” 

With a mocking laugh the policeman says, “Accident enough that 




114 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


you are under arrest/’ and so saying he jerks him around and goes 
to the box to call the patrol wagon. 

“With what am I charged?” asks John. 

“Oh, you don’t know, do you, sonny?” And so saying he gives 
him a shake and pushes him into the wagon, which immediately 
rnstles off. At the station John learns he is charged with stealing, 
and supposing it to be the babe they say he stole, he practically 
admits Ins guilt. Imagine his suffering when told next morning that 
he has confessed to stealing a diamond necklace from Mrs. Grass 
and when he sees all his professions of innocence are scorned he de- 
ddes to trust and keep quiet, knowing the babe is safe, and trusting 
a kind Providence will deal as well with him. They tell him thl 
necklace was found in his trunk. He tells them how he thinks it got 
there, but is only laughed to scorn. After his preliminary hearing 
he is bound over to the grand jury and locked in jail to await his 
< ring, w ich may be months. And so we leave him to think and 
worry and pray lest Mary read what the papers say, and, by trying 
help him get into trouble with the gang, “For,” he reasons, “they 
got rid of Mane somehow, and here I am, jailed for that which I 
never dreamed of doing. Oh, God, please keep Mary and the babe 

X g ^,r ixed with “ And s ° 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


tiie wedding preparations. 


a few days of earnest search for Marie Jones, and a few trips ur 
own street, revealed to them no place that looked like 

a hospital, private or otherwise, and so they postponed the seartht 



FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


115 


prepare for Peggy’s wedding. At home Father and Mother Strong 
are more than busy, and this wedding bids fair to outrival the party 
at the Raymonds. Jack sends a girl of Peggy’s choosing out to help 
Mother Strong, “For,” says he, “Peggy, this is one of the most 
sacred things in any human life, and let us make the occasion one 
long to be remembered.” 

Peggy’s frugal mind is all in a stir at what she calls the ex¬ 
travagance of preparation. Jack gets the same orchestra for the 
wedding music that played at Irene’s party. He also sends Mother 
Strong a check for $200.00 for her part of the expense, telling her 
to use it anywhere or how she sees fit, making the family or herself 
or the house or the table ready, but use it that Peggy have a nice 
wedding, and consider it his present to her for letting him break so 
suddenly in on their plans and throwing things in such a commo¬ 
tion in their peaceable home. “Don’t waste time,” he says, “sending 
it back, for I would follow your example, and as back and forth she 
went that little dab of money might spoil the wedding of the best 
and dearest girl in all the world.” 

His own mother receives a like amount from him, telling her at 
length their plans, and hoping she and Mother Strong will see that 
their plans—his and Peggy’s—do not come to grief. Also they send 
her help from the city. Theirs is to be both an old and a new fash¬ 
ioned wedding. “For,” says Jack, “’Tis great, girlie, to be well born, 
and just think of the joy our mothers will get out of this affair. 
You know they were girls together, and each attended the other’s 
wedding, and ‘stood up,’ as they called it with each other. Oh, Peg, 
I have it. Let’s have them stand up with us.” 

“Why, Jack, have you gone wild? No one ever heard of such a 
thing, and while we have not asked them, I am sure Irene and Ed¬ 
ward expect to do that.” 

“See if I care. We are doing this. Irene shall be ring girl, and 


11G 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


our parents bridesmaids and groomsmen, and, let me see—Edward 
must have a glutton’s part. Now I have it. He shall seat the guests, 
both for the ceremony and at the table,” and with a laughing ges¬ 
ture finished, “Madame, obey! The king has spoken.” 

“Then you must tell them, and that it is your plan, and I must 
say if you had already told it so I could shirk the responsibility, I 
like your plan, and surely it is original.” 

Dropping on his knees before her in mock humility he says, “Oh, 
lady fair, let me kiss your hand in respect for the honor you do me. 
I so want to tell it myself, for two reasons. I want first to see how 
the man of the alabaster countenance and iron nerve will look when 
I so gracefully leave him out, and I also want to take this plan of 
notifying him that we intend doing as we think best, even when he 
is in town.” 


When he first began speaking a quick flash of anger shot across 
Pe ggy s f ace , but as he continued it quickly died in a ringing ripple 
of mirth, and giving him a slap, she says, “Get up, you naughty boy, 
and straighten that picture. You plan to give as souvenirs of our 
wedding pictures of this house, inside and out. Do you know how 
short the time is, and had you forgotten that tonight the rooms 
must all be ready or your pictures will not get done ?” 

“Right you are, girlie mine,” and blithely he goes up the ladder 
and from one picture to another until Peggy pronounces it all good, 
and as every room is complete in window dressing and wall decora¬ 
tion, they lay the rugs and place the furniture, and Irene comes from 
the store and helps, and they eat the evening meal here. Aunt 
Dinah cooks it. For an extra price she stays and clears up the 
dishes and dusts and helps until all is done, and they all go home on 
the owl car, a tired but jolly crew. Now the nest is ready and the 
souvenirs are being finished. They consist of a picture of the house 
in the center and the various rooms grouped about it. The invita- 








































































































































































































































































PEGGY STRONG. 
















FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


119 


tions have gone out, their wardrobes are almost ready, so why not 
relax and be jolly, knowing that the two good watchful mothers are 
caring for the home end of the line. Jack takes the girls out on 
Massachusetts avenue, and then goes to his own room and sleeps as 


j only a sound body and mind knows how. Irene has already moved 
such of their furniture as she wants for her room over to Peggy’s 
i and that too is in order. In the morning they get up early and take 
| their trunks and other belongings over to the house and put them 
I away, for Irene is not to work any more until after the wedding, 
and tonight the girls start for the old home, leaving Jack and 
Edward to follow. But this evening the four of them dine at 
Rose Cottage, as Jack has'named their new home. The girls help 
prepare the food which Aunt Dinah and Uncle Eben are to serve, 
j During the busy day all the articles of Peggy’s trosseau have been 
I collected and packed for the trip home. Now she is in a panic of 
fear lest Jack won’t like her dress, but he will not let her unpack it, 
“For,” says he, “you are only nervous, dear, and I want first to see 
you wear it. I have perfect confidence in your judgment, and would 
be greatly disappointed to see it before you wear it, for you know 
we left that one point as a surprise to each other. Our apparel was 
to be chosen individually, you to see mine and I yours on our backs 
first. Let us not break it.” 

“Well, if you are not two of the oddest people I ever met,” said 
Edward. “When Irene and I marry we will run around hand in 
hand and inspect every garment in the minutest detail. Then to 
think of the old folks being bridesmaid and groomsman! That is 
great as a joke. Then Irene as ring bearer! Why, that is a child’s 
job, and were it any one but you folks I would not permit her to do 
it. Are your lives always to be freakish like that?” 

The only answer Jack had time to make was with lifted head and 
eyes that burned you to say: “We certainly reserve the inalienable 




120 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


right to live our lives as we think best, regardless of petty opinions.” 

“Then you consider my opinion petty, do you?” 

But he was never answered, for ting-a-ling went the door bell, 
and on answering it Jack found the transfer man there for the 
trunks, and in the hurry of going to the train that a woman always 
feels, the girls both forgot the conversation, and the men both left 
it to the old adage, “Silence gives consent.” 

The girls get home at four in the morning, and Fathers Raymond 
and Strong are there to welcome their darlings and take them home 
to a breakfast such as you, my city friend, seldom see. The Strongs 
are jealous of every moment, realizing how soon Peggy will no 
longer be all their own, and the Raymonds glad it is not their dove 
that is going to mate so soon. Father Raymond has arranged for 
Irene to take the home school and forget the city, except as she 
visits Peggy occasionally. Every improvement possible has been 
added that he and mother think would induce her to stay. The 
Strongs have rebuilt the old house, making it very ample, and, like 
the Raymonds, making it modern, trying to retard the flight of the 
rest of their brood. Father and Mother Raymond express great dis¬ 
like for Edward, and tell Irene plainly that if he really loved her he 
would come to their home to court her, “which is the right place 
after all.” 

“Why,” said Mr. Raymond, “I would have gone to the end of thQ 
world after mother, child, and she was no fairer nor better than I 
want my Irene to always be.” 

But Irene would not listen, and while she was kindness itself she 
stood out against their earnest, heart-burning desires with a firm¬ 
ness that surprised and almost maddened them. 

The Strongs were no less busy, the family loving and admiring ! 
Peggy and her new belongings, and gently loosening the tendrils her 
life had woven about their hearts to make a place among them 


FRESII FROM THE BARRENS 


121 


I where Jack may safely abide, and that the room may hold two in- 
I stead of one. In the new house the Strongs have a room for Peggy 
l and her family that they tell her will always be ready when she or 
Tiers see fit to come back. How tenderly she arranges it, and with 
' what interest she arranges and plans with mother just how it shall 
I be kept. 

At the Harsh home all is joy. Mother Harsh has always wanted 
] a daughter, and she always believed Jack to be the wisest son living, 
I and always feared he would be beguiled by some worthless woman. 

“But if he had asked me to choose his wife,” she tells the kin- 
i folks assembled, “I could not have chosen to suit us all so well. I 
I will not attempt to tell you all her virtues. You will see them, but 
I will tell you her heart is large and her head level, and when she 
f is the wife of our John she will take us all as her very own, for she 

i is a girl who is wise enough to take the whole family when she takes 
one. We will never be counted out unless we cause it ourselves.” 
And so they find it to be. Mother Harsh asked her to come over and 
| help make Jack’s room into a fit habitation for both of them. “For,” 
1 sa id she, “you will always find it here for any of you who will come 

I and occupy it.” Peggy goes. How the cousins and aunts stand 
agape, to see what this masterful specimen of girlhood will do, for 
they and mother have made it as nice as they know how, but this 
wonder of creation will surely turn it wrong side out and upside 
down, they reason. You know our hearts are always a little sur¬ 
feited at hearing and seeing any one “over-regarded,” as we say. 
| When they see her coming, wearing a neat house dress and carrying 
a rattan suit case, their mirth knows no bounds, and they laugh and 
gibe Mother Harsh with such questions as, “Do you think she carries 
a suction sweeper and some patent scheme for dusting and disin¬ 
fecting?” And “do you suppose it will be possible for her to disin¬ 
fect you and your premises?” Mother Harsh is noted the country 







122 


FRESH FROM THE ^BARRENS 


round for both the cleanliness and the homelikeness of her home, and 
no one ever found a room musty from disuse or untidy from lack of 
care, and with the neat but sturdy figure rapidly coming nearer their 
remarks smart some. Peggy’s gentle rap on the door stops their 
tongues if not the merry twinkle of their eyes. How expectantly 
they listen as they hear her in the hall telling Mother Harsh she 
would have been here sooner, “but as I told you I had to finish a 
dress for Sue, and the ironing for mamma.” And now she and 
mother stand before them, mother triumphant and Peggy abashed, 
lor she had not known that so many of Jack’s folks were already 
there. That she is taken by surprise they must see. That her de¬ 
portment is of unquestionable dignity and superiority they feel as 
well. Mother introduces her to them as “My Jack’s wife” (for to 
morrow is the wedding day). They had pictured an affected, styl¬ 
ishly cheap greeting, possibly a perfunctory kiss from her, for they 
too, thought a man of Jack’s ability must surely get a cheap wife.’ 

ow her hearty handshake and natural, unaffected greeting warmed 

eir hearts, but somehow their minds would travel to that immacu¬ 
late room up stairs over which they all had labored, and to the 
rattan suit case at her side, and to the house dress that, spotless as 
it was > said I came to work. What would you have me to do?” 

oSV 1 ? 1 * Stl ' ain under which the Y labored, and asked simply, 
Mrs. Harsh, liow do you like Aunt Dinah? She helped us put things 
m order and worked pretty hard. Is she sick? If so, just put me to 
work. I am strong, you know, and am willing to do my best Tell 
me what, and where.” 7 leU 

“I like Aunt Dinah very much, and at this moment she is busy as 
a hornet But one thing I wanted of you. The room-Jack’s old 
oom that he always kept so boyish that I fear you will not feel 
at home in it. I wish you would make it ready to your own i ng 
and I am sure he will like it. You know you two are to faZ 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


123 


and I your second night here, and I thought if you was familiar with 
the room you would feel more at home with us. So do anything you 
like there. And now we will go up, all of us, and then we will help 
you or leave you alone, just as you wish, just like you was at your 
very own mother’s house.” 

Up they go, Mother Harsh at the head, the others trailing be¬ 
hind, Peggy almost the hindmost.' At the door they pause and let 
Peggy and Mother Harsh enter alone, but how they look and listen. 
Peggy turns slowly and takes in every detail of arrangement, then 
she wipes her handkerchief across the hack of a chair looking for 
dust. Then she stares, and finally says, “I don’t know what you 
mean.” 

“Why?” asked Mother Harsh. 

“Well, I came over understanding that time had outraced you 
and that I could help by coming over and working an hour or two. 
You say everything is ready but this room, and really I could not 
suggest a change either of cleanliness, furniture or arrangement, for 
in every article there is dignity—just enough furniture for comfort, 
not marring the simplicity, and the whole is polished till it shines. 
Tell me, pray, what could I add? for I do not know.” 

“Do you like it ?” 

“Like it? Why it is beautiful in the extreme, and if you think 
this unfinished I fear you will be greatly disappointed in your 
daughter-in-law’s house, for when I got it like this I should do this,” 
and she dropped down in the corner of the davenport and assumed a 
posture of ease and idleness becoming a queen, while the twinkle of 
her eye spoke of life and merriment and content. 

If you removed ten feet from the middle of a dam, you know how 
the water would rush and gurgle through. Then you know what a 
rush these merry young cousins made on Peggy. They took her off 
the davenport, holding her head and heels, and threw her on the bed 







124 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


and rolled and romped and pounded her, and she them in turn, until 
the room looked storm-wrecked, and the pillows, cushions and every 
unbreakable thing in the room had been thrown at some one, no 
matter who, and sorry to say some false hair was strewn around, 
and Peggy’s hair seemed to clothe her, for she needed no false braid, 
and often had to thin her locks so as to be able to care for them. 
The older women looked on amazed, and yet well satisfied and 
laughing, and into Mother Harsh’s heart crept a peace that satisfied 
her life-long desire for a daughter. The old clock down in the hall 
calls up the stair, one—two—three. You ought to have seen those 
girls straighten, for they really expected it to go on and say four- 
five, and at that hour Jack’s train is due. What a scurrying of 
pillows and cushions into place. Soon everything is in order but the 
tousled bed, and they all insist that Peggy make it, while they direct 
the job, and there is more merriment over the making of that bed 
than has ever been in the Harsh home, for until now it has never 
known a daughter, and in every heart present, old and young, she 
holds that place, and were she marrying out instead of in the family 
the loving feeling of proprietorship would be no greater. They all 
try to prevail on her to spend the whole evening with them, but she 
will not. “For,” says Peggy, “Mother and I talked it over. Tonight 
is the last you have Jack completely all your own, or that my folks 
have me that way, and while we look for love and peace all the way 
mother says it will, at best, never be quite the same. Since I do not 
want to go to the train to meet Jack, I will wait at the church, and 
when you bring him there to see the decorations I will explain it 
and bid him good-bye at your door till tomorrow.” Every tousled 
head is in order, and as they leave the hall for Ora to see the church 
and meet Jack the old clock strikes four, and in ten minutes they 
are in the church, and in the main well pleased with the decorations, 
but as they rearrange a few things in walk the older women and 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


125 


again they look it over until everything is pronounced good, and in 
a few minutes the train is due. Mrs. Harsh and the cousins go to 
meet Jack. The aunts and Peggy remain at the church. Father 
Harsh is there with three farm wagons to meet Jack and take the 
family home, he says, “in the good old-fashioned way.” 

For the first time the waiting girl at the church feels that nerv¬ 
ous restlessness so common to a bride. It seems as if her head 
swims and time goes so queerly, so without a thought of guile she 
J says to the assembled aunts, “If you will excuse me, I want to have 
a look at my old class room, where I was both pupil and teacher.” 

Of course they tell her to go. What a good time she has alone 
with that which is sacred. She does not hear the train whistle, for 
she is truly alone with memory and with God. Neither does she 
hear Jack’s entrance and the hum of voices as he is shown around 
and has the palms arranged so as to completely hide the orchestra. 
Nor does she hear his step on the carpeted stair, but she does hear 
his tap on the class room door, and calls, “Come,” and he goes in- 
Will we peep in and then write? No, let us go softly down the 
stair, knowing that however loving the greeting it will stop short of 
that which can be questioned, knowing that two affinities have met 
and that they are truly soul mates, because our God has made them 
so. You ask, “Why has he done so?” I answer, “They regard the 
laws of both God and man, and there can be no soul mates on a 
lawless plane.” 

Well, here they come, down the stair, arm in arm, chummy and 
chatty, agreed on the plan of each spending the evening with the 
home folks, and home they go. Jack driving one wagon and Peggy 
perched on the seat beside him make a picture good for the old folks 
to see. At Harsh’s the girls are unloaded, and Peggy calls back as 
she and Jack drive off on the trot (for he insists he will take her 
home in the wagon), “Jack will hurry back,” and so he does. 










126 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


of iX r 7 , raw every shade and light evef y torch in the ^° mea 

sired timo 7 ^ Str ° ng9 ’ f ° r this is a special and 

sacred time. Tomorrow a fledgling flies forth from each to form a 

You failld“ to thr ° b mUSt be fe “ in the home ne ats. 

You’d h!tt t g ° nt Shade in Jack ’ s room clear down, 

loud better try again, for I plainly see Mrs. Harsh reeling on 

forXle ’ r,; 6 h “ d ° ne fr ° m hiS b °y hood “P> to tell him a s°tory 
for pleasant dreams’ sake, and the way he is laughing and she 

nooToTTf thi " k A iS hearing ° f Peggy ' S “P^ ‘his after! 
n on that very bed. There, that hides them. Now we leave them 

till tomorrow. Then comes the wedding at high noon. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


TROUBLED waters. 


Let us affect the dress and manner of a first-class snort ns ,r,i 

theVrii7;“o k s J :„ h a n ;: pIace as r er for Mrs ^•»* 

since we left ££££ « 

never seen such a bunch of skirts before ev • L ? d 1 have 

“ '* “»-»»ri's 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


127 


drink here at all hours of the night, and Miss Molly saw that she 
had enough dope to keep her quiet next day.” 

“Did Miss Molly make much money off of her?” 

“Oh, yes. As the fellow what caused her to come here did not 
care for her I took her for mine, and I became her boss. You see 
then I got 10 per cent, of all her earnings, which brought me $300.00, 
and I don’t know just what fee Madame Molly paid the bosses, but 
I suppose she cleaned up $1,500.00 out of the $3,000.00 she took in. 
You see she locked up the girl’s clothes and told her they were not 
fit to wear in the society of such gentlemen as come here. Then she 
bought her what she thought best, and of course that had to be paid 
out of her earnings. Madame Molly paid it and charged her a profit 
on the glad rags for having done so.” 

“What part do you take in it all?” 

I “Oh, I go out and tell rich fellows what a nice new and pretty 
girl we have down here and invite them down. Then I make jolly 
around here and get them to spend when they come, and incidentally 
I keep track of when a girl is dissatisfied and wants to play quits. 
I always got a bunch of fellows to help on that,” and going to a 
drawer he unlocked it and brought forth a first-class riding whip, 
saying, “When they begin to grumble I take this and lay it across 
them a few times, and most all of them come to time, for you know 
they are all cowards or they would never come here in the begin¬ 
ning.” 

“But,” we ask, “do not girls come here not knowing where they 
are going?” 

“Nearly every time that is the case,” says he. “A girl who came 
here knowing what it is all about would attract only the very 
cheapest of men, and every house likes to get high class men—the 
higher the better. One preacher is worth two gamblers, for, you 
' see, if he fails to spend to suit us here at the house we begin to 





FRESI1 i< ROM THE BARRENS 


125 


start the bee of suspicion buzzing around his head. Then you ought 
to see him come through. He will stint his family or resort to most 
any method to keep us quiet, for a man never values his reputation 
until he is afraid he will lose it. Oh, mister, this is easy money 
when you can put your conscience to sleep. At first 1 felt scared all 
the time and could not sleep nights, but now I never care.” 

“Do preachers ever come here?” 

“Oh, not often; but once in a great while one is fool enough to do 
so. Then how we do bleed the fool.” 

“May I see Miss Jones ?” 

A wild, scared look passed over his face as he asked, “Oh, Lord, 
is she your relation?” 

“Oh, no, I am just anxious to see her and have a talk.” 

“Are you a reporter? If you are you’d better be careful what 
you make youri mouth say, for mercy is not acquainted here when 
business is interfered with. I was only joking when I told you 
that any way. I thought you a game fellow, and wanted to show you 
a good time, but, I guess you must be a parson, and come to think of 
it, Miss Jones is not here. She has quit the business, so you might 
be jogging along.” So saying he opens the door for you to pass. 
But if you are obstinate and slyly show him a crisp fifty-dollar bill 
saymg, “Oh, come, fellow, be sociable. I won’t give you away, and 
this is yours if you tell me all about it,” he will do one of two things 

either crack your head, or, if he thinks you his mark he will tell 

you all about it. But he will try to pocket the fifty dollars, at all 
hazards. 

“Well,” he says, “boss, you go on. I am coming up town soon, 
iou wait just around the corner, and if you never tell I will tell you 
all I know about it.” J 

Not long do you wait till here he comes, and this is his story: 

“Well, boss, that girl is sure enough gone, and is with the woman 



FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


129 


who registered her and sent her here. You see she got in with some 
rich guy, and when he got tired of her he turned her over to a 
rich woman up north who furnishes most of our . iris. She kept the 
babe and brought her here. She was paid by the house for her 
trouble, and because she registered her the police hold her responsi¬ 
ble to see that a girl does not break the rules of the system. We at 
the house are responsible for that too, and as long as she was valu¬ 
able property we used the dope and she made no trouble, but when 
we let the dope die out we had some doings down here. She first 
slipped out and started-to run away in the house dress they all wear 
down here. I took my whip and went after her, but she began cry¬ 
ing and prating about her babe, and I thought to get her off the 
street, so I put my arm around her waist and talked pityingly about 
her babe, telling her to come back and get some) clothes, and when 
I got her back inside I showed her my whip and told her what was 
what, and she began screaming and I began whipping, and the harder 
I whipped the more she yelled for help, and some old geezer went by 
and heard her, and he came and kicked in the door and one of the 
old girls had to go out and cut a few antics, and we had to have 
him smell her breath to convince him that it was her and caused by 
drunkenness.” 

“Why did not Marie appeal to him?” 

“Oh, I gave her a lick with the loaded end of the whip and we 
hustled her to our secret hiding place for girls—we all have them. 
So when he looked through and could find no one but the girl in the 
parlor who seemed excited all he could do was to go his way, saying, 
‘Well, the cry I heard sounded like one in pain,’ and just when we 
were all taking a little nip and laughing at our success and waiting 
for the lady in hiding to come back to consciousness, ‘buzz-z-z-z! ’ went 
our telephone, and the captain called Molly, saying: ‘What are you 
folks pulling off down there? I have to send the wagon around 








130 


FRESH FROM THE BARREN'S 


there. A fellow who brought a very bad report from your place, and 
who seems well posted, insists that we bring you down, and I have 
to do it, for you know I can’t really protect you if you break one of 
the regulations and some one complains. The fellow is coming along, 
so whatever you have in hiding, bring it forth, for he will be on your 
trail until he is satisfied.’ 

“Molly answered: ‘It was that Jones girl—Clara Blake, you know. 
She has the ailment they all get down here sooner or later, and as 
she is of no value to the trade I thought it no use to waste dope on 
her, so she raised high jinks here by trying to run away, and when 
Algy got her back she began yelling about her babe, and the more 
he whipped the louder she yelled. She is in the dungeon now, un¬ 
conscious. Shall I leave her there? You know it is the rule to hide 
them.’ 

‘“I said bring every one there down, and I meant just what I 
said. And furthermore, if you don’t want the fellow to see your re¬ 
pentance room, as you sometimes call it, get her out and do it quick, 
for the wagon just now left the station, and the farmer is on the 
front seat anxious for the fray, and the talk he gave us down here 
shows we can’t hand him much or regulate him any more than you 
did Clara, and a reporter is along. Furthermore, he heard all the 
farmer said to us. So you, can take your choice between good be¬ 
havior and no monkey tricks or out of business you go in this village.’ 

“While listening to the captain Madame Molly had ordered Marie 
brought up and given some dope, ‘for,’ she said, ‘it will comfort the 
old farmer to rescue her that way, and besides she can tell no tales,’ 
and mister, just then the wagon came up and the farmer was in the 
front rank, and when they were all in and he looked further and 
came on to the prostrate form of Marie his face was a study to see 
of mingled pity and triumph. He helped to tenderly carry her out 
and rode back to the station with her in his arms, saying now and 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


131 


then, T have daughters,’ and looking at Molly like he wished him¬ 
self a murderer and Molly the victim. Next morning Mr. Farmer 
was on hand. Marie was too weak to talk to him, but he saw that 
her fine was paid, and Molly paid for the rest. Then we went to 
work, and I got a dandy young girl in Marie’s place. Thought she 
was going to a hotel to board—a girl’s hotel, where no men could 
come. She is a minister’s daughter. We have had an awful time 
with her. Had to hold her and use a hypodermic to get the dope 
going, but that brought her. Only the devil knows what will be to 
pay when she gets the white slave’s disease and Molly tries to save 
dope.” 

“Where is your farmer and Clara?” 

“Oh, he insisted on seeing her in some good home where she would 
have a show, and since she so disregarded every rule of the system 
the chief was afraid to let her get out of the clutches of some one 
who was in on the thing, so as not to go too hard on him. You see 
this whole business is against the law, and would make a world of 
trouble should it get out just how it all is. You see this rich lady 
I told you of often does charity work and thereby gets us some 
valuable girls. She gives large sums to charity. Of course it comes 
off the house that gets the girl, but she gets the credit, and they 
think a great deal of her in those circles. So she easily flim¬ 
flams the farmer. A cop took him out there to see her home, and he 
almost worshipped at her feet he was so grateful that so fine a lady 
would help the poor girl, and Marie was glad to go there, for she 
was anxious about the babe, and she told Mr. Farmer that this lady 
had helped her with her babe, and all she wanted was to get it. 
Then she was going home to her mother. But Mrs. Grass will never 
let her go away to her folks, for they are pretty well to do, and will 
make war everywhere if she gets home and tells her story. So she 
is over there now.” 


132 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


Let tlie new butler finish his own story: 

“For an added ten dollars he gave us the number of Mrs. Grass’ 
residence. 

“As I read the paper that evening my eyes fell on an advertise¬ 
ment in the want column reading: 

“ ‘WANTED—Butler, at No.- North -street. Call in 

person.’ 

“Keenly curious, over I went and got the place. Sure enough, 
Miss Jones was there, and was very sick. Mrs. Grass is very refined 
and so sorry about Marie, who raves constantly about her babe. 
Mrs. Grass says she really does not know what she is saying, and 
would not be fit to nurse her babe were it here, for she has the 
white slaves’ disease. 

“ ‘Poor girl,’ said she, ‘I boarded her and cared for her through her 
sickness, and when she got well she disappeared, and of course all I 
could do was to put the infant in the orphanage, for should I take a 
babe I would not want one so young as that. I might have taken it 
when it got older, so I knew how to care for it. My old butler 
offered to take the child to the home for me, and as I was sick that 
morning I let him do so. I went to town that day, and when I got 
back my diamond necklace was gone. When I called the detectives 
they looked around and found it in his trunk. So of course he is in 
jail, and he refuses to tell where he left the babe. My coachman 

took him out to the orphanage on - street, but the baby 

does not seem to be there. I have been to most of the others, 
but it is not in any of them. I think it must have died, for my 
coachman saw him go in and says he is sure he passed him on the 
car as he came back, and that he knows that he did not have the 
babe, for he stood up and opened the window and told him he was 
going up town for a while. So all I can figure is that it is dead. 
I have told all this to the baby’s father, and he is sure it is dead. 





FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


133 


We gave it a peculiar and secret mark that only the doctor, the 
father and I know, before we let it go, so I could not he mistaken. 
But the mother refuses to believe it dead, and sick as she is, wants 
to go and search for it, and I fear when she did not find it she would 
go wild/ 

“Thinking best to appear friendly, I said, ‘If you could only have 
known she would be back so soon/ 

“Quickly she answered, T know nothing of the care of babies, 
and besides I never expected her back. They seldom ever come back. 
I guess when she is better I will just let her go and search for it 
herself. You see she blames me for letting it go, and I blame her 
for leaving it alone, and there we have it/ 

“ T think it better you do that,’ said I. 

“‘Here comes Dr. -,’ said she. ‘Now you go upstairs and 

look after her, while I consult him as to what is best. Comfort her 
all you can with what I have told you, and we will be up soon/ 

“Up I go, while she and Dr.-hold a very close consultation 

in the parlor below. As I enter I find Marie walking the floor and 
wringing her hands, while tears stream down her face. I announce, 
‘I am the new butler, ma’am, come to help you all I can. Be free to 
command me.’ 

“ ‘Where,’ she asks, ‘is Mrs. Grass ?’ 

“ ‘Down stairs with Dr. -.’ 

“‘They are plotting against me,’ she said. ‘I think they know 
all about my babe. Maybe they killed it—only God knows, and 
while I am not sure, for I seem not to remember it all, how 1 
got to that house, but yet just like a wild dream, it seems she took 
me there. I try and try, but I can’t remember what it is about. 
Will you help me get my baby again?’ 

“ ‘I will try, lady, but may fail/ 

“ ‘May God bless you, I pray, for trying. I wish I knew I could 





134 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


trust you. I have one thing I want done very much, but seem to 
get in with such treacherous folks I fear to trust any one/ 

“ ‘You may well trust me. What is it ?’ 

Well, here is a letter. If I live I intend going home and giving 
it to mother myself. If I come to grief here will you please send it 
when I am gone?’ 

“ C1 surely will/ I reply, and she gives me a letter addressed to 
her mother, saying, ‘They seem to have thought I would write, and 
so arranged that I have neither stamps nor money, and will not let 

me leave this house. Dr. - says I am dangerously ill, but I 

know better. I am only worried. If you let them know what I tell 
you or that you have the letter, you will wind up with the old but¬ 
ler, and I wish you would go and see him and tell him of me and ask 
him for me where the babe is, and ask him to forgive me my cross 
way of dealing with him, and tell him I am his friend and know he 
is mine, and that if I ever get out of here I will help him all I can. 
Be sure—don’t forget.’ This last she spoke hastily, for we heard 
them coming up the stairs. 

“ ‘Trust me to do as you say/ I answered. 

“Half way up Mrs. Grass turned back to answer the bell, and we 

heard her call up to Dr. -, saying, ‘Doctor, Marie’s farmer 

friend is here to see her. I told him, as I knew you would expect me 
to, how sick she is, and unable to see any one after the terrible 
thing she has gone through, but he wants to see her. Can he? Or 
had he better come back tomorrow ?’ 


“ ‘Come day after tomorrow/ answered the doctor. ‘She possibly 
would not know you now, and I suppose you want to talk to her. 
So come at this hour day after tomorrow.’ 

“Thanking the doctor, Mr. Farmer talked a few minutes to Mrs. 
Grass, then went away fully believing all they told. 

«‘Dr. -, you know that is not true/ called Marie, and yet 




FRESH FROM THE BARREN'S 


135 


her voice did not reach the farmer, or if it did he believed her de¬ 
lirious, as Mrs. Grass so sweetly told him, and in fact I could scarce 
tell if they were shamming or really believed her as sick as they 
made her appear, but the farmer seemed to fully believe all they 
told, for he went his way, seemingly glad she was in such good 
hands. 

“Marie did not want Dr. - to come near her, saying, ‘You 

know quite well I am not sick. I only want my child back and to 
be allowed to go home to mother; then I would be all right.’ 

“ ‘My dear girl,’ said Dr. -, ‘We intend taking you home at 

the proper time. As for the babe, we are searching for it as best we 
can. Now, my dear, be a good girl for once, and let me get you out 
of this, and maybe you can find it yourself.’ 

“He got off much such talk, and both she and I were deceived. 
Finally she asked him to send me to see the butler, saying if he did 
that she would believe him, and that the butler might tell me where 
the babe was. 

“ ‘Why, certainly, Miss, if he can find anything to your interest 
let him go at any time,’ said the doctor. 

“ ‘Go now, and hurry there and hurry back, and do your best,’ 
said Marie, and off I went as quickly as possible. I got my inter¬ 
view, and the butler sent her word that she shall come herself, and 
he will not only tell her where to find the babe, but will give her a 
letter of introduction to the lady who has it, who will make for her 
tired head and aching heart a sure resting place and safe home, but 
that he loves her and will gladly marry her if she will take him. 
‘Tell her,’ he said, ‘I send her this message instead of waiting to de¬ 
liver it because she is so storm-tossed, and I cannot come to her, but 
tell her the babe is all right, and so will she be when she gets to it. 
I will tell none but the mother where it is. I have been deceived too 
often for that.’ 




136 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


“Back I go, glad of my success. When I arrive at the house Mrs. 
Grass meets me very solemnly, saying, ‘Marie is worse, very much 
worse. Doctor says it is the nervous shock. What did he tell you?’ 

“As she talks and tries to hold me I just move on down the hall 
and enter Marie’s room. Such a change I never saw. Her face is 
drawn and blue, and she scarcely recognizes me, but I take hold of 
her hand and say, T have news of the babe.’ As if by an electric shock 
she rallies, and gathering all her powers, she drinks in what I tell. 
I tell her slowly, .word for word. I add just one thing: ‘He could 
not write, for you know he would have had to wait for them to read 
it, and he wanted me to hurry. You will hear from him again.’ 

“She seemed satisfied, and asked: ‘Then my poor—little—babe—- 
is all right—and—I can—soon— go —to it and—give—it a home—like 
—other—children.’ Then she struggled for strength, and said, ‘Go— 
right back—and tell him—I—love—him—and—wish—he was here— 
to help me—I am—sick—so—very—sick. The medicine did it—all— 
I—am—sure—hurry—please—bring—him—if—you—can—’ 

“I saw that from some cause she was evidently dying, and hurry¬ 
ing with all my might I got the captain of police, and a merciful 
Providence helping, he listened and sent a plain clothes man down 
there with the butler and I. We were just in time. I never saw a 
man mount stairs like John Butler did, and into the room he went 
like wild, and just in time, too. Mrs. Grass was mad, I tell you. 
Of course the detective hurried after him as fast as he could, and she 
came out of the room as white as death, and I thought I heard her 
say ‘damn!’ and her hands were clenched, but I went on in, and 
there was John Butler holding Marie in his arms and crying and 
begging her to live for his and the babe’s sake, and being as tender 
and loving as a husband, and Marie by turns unconscious, then with 
superhuman effort rallying and nestling close to him in a way to 
break a man’s heart, and saying: ‘Dear John—my John—the medi- 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


137 


cine did it—they—made me take—it-John—help—me—John— 

won’t you—please—I—love—you—J ohn—J esus—have—mercy—on—■ 
my—poor—soul—I am—so—sorry—’ and then she only moved her 
lips and nestled close to the heart of a true man, and there sir, she 
died. John wanted to bury her, and I wanted to bail him out so he 
could, but Mrs. Grass opposed it, saying she intended to take her 
home to her mother, and the plain clothes man would have taken 
John back to jail, but I interfered, and as God must have planned it, 
I could put up cash bond for him. So all he had to do was to go to 
the station and be bailed out, I standing sponsor for him. When he 
and I got back a man was there whom Mr. Butler told me was Ed¬ 
ward Schilling, and that he was the babe’s father. He was very 
grave and mysterious, and gave Mrs. Grass money for funeral ex¬ 
penses, saying, ‘Spare no pains to put the poor girl away nice, Mrs. 
Grass.’ 

“He first offered the money to John, who said, while his face 
blazed: ‘Sir, were it not that I am here on bail by the mercy of this 
gentleman, and in respect to him who lives and to her who is dead, 
I would see that that offer was the last of its kind you ever made,’ 
and so saying he turned and walked hurriedly to where Marie lay, 
and laying his head on her breast sobbed as I never saw a strong 
man weep before. 

“So Mrs. Grass and Edward and I made the arrangements for the 
funeral, Schilling and Mrs. Grass having some argument, because he 
insisted she keep Marie in the house for a few days, saying he was 
called away to an old-fashioned wedding of a friend of his, and that 
tomorrow was the wedding day and the next day the ‘infair,’ as in 
old times it was called. To Mrs. Grass’ threat to take her sooner, he 
replied: 

“ ‘How would you explain the absence of her husband ? I advise 
you not to start anything. This is the time you had better listen to 


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me. You know your old butler is out on bail, and you may need me 
worse than you think.’ 

“She gave us both a wild, scared look, which she intended for a 
very haughty one, and replied: 

Oh, well, do as you plesae. You have run my house so long I 
always expect you to domineer me.’ 

“And so the interview closed, Edward taking up his suit case and 
starting for the train, Mrs. Grass going to her room and I to mine, 
for John Butler said he wanted to watch alone, if I was not afraid 
to trust him, seeing my money set him free. 

“Trust you, man? Why sure I trust you,’ said I, and going 
closer and speaking in low tones I added, ‘And if in the silent watches 
of the night you think it over and decide to kiss her still form good¬ 
bye and steal away to the little wriggling pink mite of humanity she 
loved so well, do it. I don’t care for the money.’ 

“Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘If I do you will get your money 
back. But I think you will find me here while she stays, and then I 
plan to give myself up and let the law take its course. Somehow I 
am sure that the great loving Father who gave His Son to be not 
only our Redeemer but our Elder Brother, will not forget me now, 
and that I will be marvellously delivered from that jail.’ 

“I felt so sorry for him, and thought his grief had turned his head 
but I answered, ‘One of old said, “According to your faith be it unto 
you and went to my room, not to sleep, but to fidget and ponder 
all I had seen and heard of late. 

“The old farmer came, and went in with Mrs. Grass and looked 
solemnly and sadly on the remains, and departed, thinking good 
things of Mrs. Grass and wondering who and what John was.” 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


139 


CHAPTER XXV. 


THE WEDDING AND HOME COMING. 

We will not attempt to describe Edward Schilling as he is whirled 
through the crisp afternoon air, past busy streets with their din and 
clatter, through quiet subprbs, out through fields of golden corn, 
past broad acres of brown earth green with sprouting wheat, past 
hamlets, villages and tiny cities, through sugar camps and meadow 
lands, over trestles and through woodland, across the murmuring, 
sparkling stream where the wild things hear the voice of God—a 
shriek of the whistle, a hiss of escaping steam, a clang of the bell, 
a grind of the wheels, and the brakeman throws open the door of the 
car and calls, “Ora, Ora!” and Edward, again mistaking the intoxi¬ 
cation of victory for an approving conscience, smilingly alights. 
Jack Harsh meets him and takes him to the hotel and there makes 
him welcome, saying, “We are all so full of relatives in the house 
we scarce know where to walk, much less to make comfortable one 
used to every luxury as I know you to be. I am sorry our little 
hotel is so small, but your bill is paid, and the best here is yours. 
You are my guest as much as if you were at mother’s house.” 

Thanking Jack he accepts it all in the spirit in which it is given, 
and proceeds to crawl into the clean bed provided for him, ordering 
that he be called at the same hour the members of the orchestra are 
called, for they, too, are being entertained at the village hotel. At 
breakfast he amuses himself by flirting with the girl who waits on 
him, and telling her of his city, and that she is bright and pretty, 
and that the opportunities for such as she are great there. Then he 
carefully dresses and goes over to the church, for he is to be general 
manager of the crowd and program. Time goes rapidly by. Irene 


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and her father and mother are dressed, and the old folks take her to 
Strong’s and then wend their way to the church and are given a seat 
among the intimate friends and relatives. The crowd comes early, 
and at 11 o’clock the church is packed, and Edward forgets all except 
the restless yet orderly mob of interested folks bent on seeing all. 
Even he fails to notice that he is part of the sight, and to hear the 
whisper from mouth to mouth that this is Irene’s city beau. Such 
music has never been heard here except at Irene’s party, and then 
only the young folks were permitted to hear. Now everyone is pres¬ 
ent, old and young, for miles around; the house is full and the win¬ 
dows thrown wide open to accommodate the crowd outside, pushing 
and jamming to get a peep inside. Edward, bent on not permitting 
any disappointment to arise, for no one is all bad, sings while the 
orchestra rests, and while his song may be very old and commonplace 
to you, my reader, it was very new and very appropriate in the 
minds of his hearers. He sang, “Love Me, and the World Is Mine.” 
He was an excellent singer, though a very bad man, and they mis¬ 
took the fervor of technique for earnestness of soul, and putting 
their own construction on the thing supposed it a tribute to one they 
claimed as their own. What awe and respect they paid him after 
that, as he moved softly among them, handling the crowd, and many 
a maiden long remembered him as she thought of Irene. How he 
looked as he easily sang—and memory went into detail—his white, 
even teeth, well kempt brown hair and mustache, rosy complexion^ 
expressive brown eyes, elegant form, graceful carriage, and even his 
finely adjusted dress suit, all came in to stimulate their desire to get 
away like Irene, and try their wings. Many an honest young swain 
was peevishly repulsed because of these memories. 

Now a hush falls on the crowd as the orchestra strikes up the 
wedding march from Lohengrin. The wedding party enter. Edward 
falls m line with Jack, and marches down the aisle. What a courtly 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


141 


pair they make—stalwart and strong, yet graceful as women. Then 
comes Irene, hearing in her hand a snow white lily, in which nestles 
the ring. The whiteness of her attire is broken only by the pink of 
her cheeks. The next in line are Father and Mother Harsh, both in 
suitable attire, his the regulation dress suit, hers a pearly white, 
their bright eyes and elastic step and well groomed appearance seem¬ 
ing to mock at their heavy crop of snow-white hair. Then comes 
Father Strong and Peggy leaning on his arm. Her attire is as sim¬ 
ple as Irene’s, but her cheek is almost as white as the dress, for she 
feels the weight of responsibility that accompanies this act she is 
about to perform. The old minister who is to preside meets them 
at the altar, carefully examines the marriage license, and begins the 
ceremony. 

‘‘Dearly beloved: The institution of marriage is as old as the 
race. First celebrated amid the innocence of the Garden of Eden, it 
has ever remained a blissful reminder of that blessed state. It was 
guarded on Mount Sinai in tones of thunder, and again in the gentler 
accents of the Sermon on the Mount. It is declared by the Apostle to 
be honorable in all. There is but one relation in life that is more 
sacred than this—that which exists between each of you and your 
Maker. There is but one relation that is more intimate and endear- 
ing—that which exists between Christ, the heavenly Bridegroom, and 
the Church, His bride. A relation so sacred, so intimate and so en¬ 
dearing should not be entered upon lightly or thoughtlessly, but 
only after due deliberation and in the fear of God; for though de¬ 
signed to be a mutual help and benefit, it often proves, like the waters 
of Marah, bitter to the taste. We are assembled in the sight of God 
and of His holy angels, to join together this man and this woman in 
the bonds of matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of 
God in the time of man’s innocency, confirmed by the teaching of 


142 


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our blessed Savior, and compared by St. Paul to the mystical union 
which subsists between Christ and His church. 

“Hear what is said by our Lord concerning it: ‘Have ye not read, 
that He which made them at the beginning made them male and 
female, and said. For this cause shall a man leave father and mother, 
and shall cleave to his wife, and they twain shall be one flesh? 
Wherefore they are no more twain, but one flesh. What, therefore, 
God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.’ 

“Trusting you have weighed the duties and responsibilities of 
holy wedlock, and are prepared in the presence of God and these wit¬ 
nesses, to take the marriage vows Upon yourselves, we will now pro¬ 
ceed. ^ 

“Into this holy estate these two persons are now come to be 
joined. Therefore, if any man can show just cause why they may 
not be lawfully joined together, let him now declare it. 

“Also I charge you each and both, as ye will answer before God at 
the dreadful day of judgment, if either of you know any reason why 
ye may not be fawfully joined together in matrimony, confess it 
now. For be well assured, that all those who are joined in marriage 
contrary to the word of God, are not joined together of God; neither 
is their marriage lawful. 

‘John Harsh, the laws of the state require me to ask you whether 
you know of any lawful impediment, why you should not be joined 
to Peggy Strong in the bonds of holy matrimony»» 

“I do not.” " ' 

“Peggy Strong, the laws of the state require me to ask you 
whether you know of any lawful impediment, why you should not 
be joined to John Harsh in the bonds of holy matrimony 2” 

“I do not.” J ’ 

^,hn P H im n nt the m ™ister then said to Jack: 

John Harsh, wilt thou haye this woman, whose hand you now 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


143 


hold, and who bears the name of Peggy Strong, to be thy lawful and 
wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate 
of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep 
her, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, keep thee 
only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?” 

“I will.” 

“Peggy Strong, wilt thou have this man, whose hand you now 
hold, and who bears the name of John Harsh, to be thy wedded hus¬ 
band, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of 
matrimony? Wilt thou love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in' 
health, and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long 
as ye both shall live?” 

“I will.” 

“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” 

Father Strong grandly, yet so simply, steps forth and answers, 
“I do.” 

The minister received Peggy from her father, and caused Jack 
with his right hand to take her by the right hand, and to say, “I, 
John Harsh, take thee, Peggy Strong, to be my wedded wife, to have 
and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer 
for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death 
us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight 
thee my troth.” 

Then they loosed their hands, and Peggy, with her right hand, 
took Jack by his right hand, and said, “I, Peggy Strong, take thee, 
John Harsh, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold, from 
this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sick¬ 
ness and in health, to love, cherish and obey, till death us do part, 
according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give my troth.” 

Then Jack took the ring from Irene, and placing it on Peggy’s 
finger, he said, “With this ring I thee wed, and with all my w T orldly 


144 


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goods I thee endow in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and 
of the Holy Ghost.” 

“Amen!” said the minister. “Let us pray. 

“Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed by Thy name. Thy 
kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven. Give 
us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we 
forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temp¬ 
tation; but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the 
. power and the glory, forever. Amen. 

“O, Eternal God, Creator and Preserver of all mankind. Giver of 
all spiritual grace, the Author of everlasting life; send Thy blessing 
upon these Thy servants, this man and this woman, whom we bless 
in Thy name; that they may surely perform and keep the vow and 
covenant betwixt them made, whereof this ring given and received 
is a token and pledge, and may they ever remain in perfect love and 
peace together, and live according to Thy laws; through Jesus Christ 
our Lord. Amen.” 

Then the minister joined their right hands together, and said 
“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder! 
Forasmuch as John Harsh and Peggy Strong have consented to live 
together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God 
and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth 
each to the other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving 
a ring and by joining hands; by the authority vested in me by the 
laws of the state and the authority of the Church of Jesus Christ, 

I pronounce that they are Husband and Wife; in the name of the 
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. 

"God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost, bless pre¬ 
serve, and keep you; the Lord mercifully with His favor look upon 
you, and fill you with all spiritual benediction and grace; that ye 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


145 


may so live together in this life, that in the World to come ye may 
have life everlasting. Amen.” 

Immediately after the ceremony is completed the party march out 
and start for the Strong’s. A carriage waits at the door and takes 
the musicians rapidly there, and when the wedding party arrives the 
same sweet strains greet them that were heard at the church. 

What a feast was set before them, and what old-fashioned farm 
hospitality was exercised, and how the day flew by. The evening 
was spent in singing and playing, every one contributing who could. 
The orchestra filled in when no one else played or sang, until time 
drove them to disperse to meet tomorrow at the home of the Harshes. 

The next day was like the first, so full of joy and friendship and 
gladness that we cannot give you the program, but truly all went 
joyous as a marriage bell. Music, laughter, greetings, well wishes 
and good-byes, and lo, it, too, is but a memory whose issues live on 
—and now ’tis morning of the third day, and Jack, Peggy and Irene 
and Edward leave for the city and the farmers go their way, and the 
women talk till their tongues are weary, of the late event. 

Arriving at home, Jack goes about his duties with an alacrity 
that carries all before him, for, says he, “I have so much to live for. 
My wife is thoroughly alive to my every interest. I have the ability 
to help humanity and she is willing to help me. Besides just see 
what a home she is making for me.” 

He quickens his pace and soon is at home, where a steaming hot 
meal awaits his coming, and the three sit down together to eat. 
They talk of all that is, and, they hope, shall be, and so life flows on 
—one blissful reality, and yet rivalling a dream. Edward has never 
before witnessed the like. He marvels at Peggy’s simple-hearted 
goodness, so unapproachable by anything impure, then so simple and 
kind and unaffected, and such an air of home about it all. The fact 


146 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


is slowly dawning in his soul that the only solid rock foundation for 
a home is the strength of a clean, pure. Godly life. 

We leave this new home of the Harshes, knowing it will flow on 
like a river, with much of simple joy and little to mar or pain, and 
look at another picture. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


THE FUNERAL. 

We came back with Edward from the wedding. We had better 
recount his movements shortly after that event. After eatinc sup¬ 
per with the Harshes he excuses himself and goes to the home of 
Mrs. Grass, with whom he makes arrangements to leave on the night 
tram for Maries old home. You ought to have seen that poor Butler 

as he took leave of Mane. He so much wanted to accompany her to 
her last resting place. J 

Mrs Grass said: “Good Lord, man! What would her mother 
think if you came there crying and kissing her hands, and acting the 
maniac as you have around here? She thinks Marie is Edward’s 
wife, and as such he intends to bury her. No doubt she would throw 
you out. So youd better kiss her good-bye, and if you love her so 
let her remain respectable at home.” 

Tll + 1S !] e dld ’ ™ dmg to the station on the hearse with the driver 
so as to be near her, then telephoning the new butler, after the train’ 
ad gone, to go down and get his bond money, “for,” said he “I am 
going down now to give myself up again.” ’ 

it , “ l trfed t0 remonstrat *>” ^id the new butler, when telling about 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


147 


“ ‘No/ he replied. ‘First, it is right. Next, I want to be alone. 
And last, but not least, I believe God will deliver me.’ 

“I hurried down, but he had beaten me there, and when I arrived 
he lay on his cot sobbing like a child, and refused to accept liberty 
until he was proven clear.” 

Morning found the funeral party at Marie’s old home. Edward’s 
grief was as becoming to him as was the song he sang at the wed¬ 
ding. Mother Jones put him in the old room, and somehow he could 
not sleep, for he seemed all the time to see and feel the presence and 
form of a resolute suffering girl there, ever resisting him, and there 
he resolved never again to commit such an act. He thought tenderly 
of Irene, and resolved to always from now on protect womanhood. 
By morning he felt very righteous, and it was easy to make the 
necessary demonstration. The Joneses were heart-broken. 

“Had her baby only lived,” said Mother Jones, “it would have 
been my joy to care for it.” 

No thought entered her mind that he was deceiving her or that his 
grief was affected, and he, of course, carried the two death and burial 
permits, and so unostentatiously showed them both that Mother Jones 
could not possibly have Relieved him fooling, no matter who had told 
her so. He was so kind and considerate of them all, and Marie looked 
so nice, and her dress and casket and the whole thing were so elegant 
that the whole community believed him a very tender and loving 
husband. He wept so elegantly when the old minister talked, and 
used for his text, “Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also 
reap.” 

He said at opening, “Friends and neighbors, after coming here 
and looking .at this grief-stricken family and husband, 1 have de¬ 
cided to change my text,” and then he read the above scripture. 
He told of Marie’s early life as a church girl and Sabbath school 
teacher, told several instances of her extreme faithfulness and reli- 





148 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


ability as a slip of a girl, spoke of the route many young girls going 
to the city took and their end, and then spoke eloquently of the 
evidences before them of the good path Marie had surely taken. 
On the whole, he outdid himself. He dwelt at length on the meet¬ 
ing of Edward and Marie, and eulogized Edward as a grand man, 
because he had so amply shielded and protected her, instead of trying 
to destroy the richest gift God ever gave to a woman. Then he 
spoke of their short life together and what a pity such beautiful 
prospects should come to so untimely an end. He spoke of her land¬ 
lady’s presence as an evidence of her steady life, and so it went. 
Could we have looked behind Mrs. Grass’ handkerchief we would 
have seen a chuckle, and Edward really shed tears of vexation, “for,” 
he afterward told Mrs. Grass, “to sit and meekly take such a bawl¬ 
ing out was more than he could stand again for the wealth of his 
home city.” 

When she gibed him for his weeping he made reply: “You know 
how Alexander the Great wept because there were no more worlds 
to conquer. So I cried because I could not get up and kick him in 
the ribs because of his open affront to me. I wanted to rave and 
curse him and ask him if he thought it any of his business what I 
did.” 

Mrs. Grass gave a musical laugh at all this, saying: “We will 
soon be in the cemetery now. You might do it there. What a pity 
you and I ride in this front carriage alone. How her mother would 
have rejoiced to hear that speech.” 

8t0p at the 0pen grave’s mouth, and Edward says, 
Well, thank God, dead men tell no tales, anyhow,” and as if in 
defiance of him, and little knowing the import of his wbrds, the old 
minister again put in as an added touch of encouraging and impres- 
sive eloquence this speech: 

“Friends, this dear sister is not dead. A life like hers can never 















. 




































■ 




















































MRS. GRASS. 

















FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


151 


die, and somehow I am deeply impressed we shall hear from her in 
a very forceful way. So do not think she is gone, for yet she will 
speak to us all and of us all,” and so saying he finished the service 
and they all went hack to the Jones home, and some unexplainable 
gloom settled on Edward and Mrs. Grass, and she seemed determined 
to quarrel, and Edward would have liked to do so, only he feared 
her tongue. How she taunted him of Irene on the way hack, say¬ 
ing, “You pull off a stunt like this, then go and marry a girl from the 
same locality without testing her at all,” and in his very fear of her 
he promised that tomorrow he would send Irene over to her house 
to fit a dress, and he would be there and they would try her out, 
and if she stood the test he would make her his wife, and if she 
fell they would send her over on Senate Avenue to the same house 
where Marie had been. Then Mrs. Grass got in excellent humor, and 
so they got away gracefully from the Jonses, he telling them he in¬ 
tends going abroad to try to forget. That he will sell his interest in 
the store, and with a much abused air asks them to forget he ever 
lived, and they pity him so and talk so nice to him. Mrs. Jones re¬ 
members and so laments what she thinks is her daughter’s sad neg¬ 
lect of wifely duties. No effort to make atonement is left undone, 
and when he leaves, were he her blood-born son leaving for the last 
time and begging to be forgotten, her heart could ache no worse, nor 
her demonstration of grief be stronger. But they are gone, he and 
Mrs. Grass, and the fresh mound up in the graveyard brings back 
to her memory the girl once so blithe and gay, lying up there help¬ 
less and alone, and, could she only know it, misjudged by those 
whom she ought to be able to call her own. 

Her dreaming and blaming suddenly ends when one morning she 
receives the letter of which we already know. What a shock when 
she looked at the address in the dear familiar hand. What a broken 





152 


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heart when she read its contents, but, like her kind, she dreads to 
act, just yet, because the world must know, and she so wants them 
to look with respect upon the mound up there. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE TESTING OF IKENE. 


Had Mother Jones acted quickly on behalf of Marie this chapter 
would not need to be told, but her delay was Irene’s undoing 
Thoughtlessly happy, she went about her duties at the store, and out 
to look after the fitting of Mrs. Grass’ dress. How gently she 
was welcomed. No thought of evil came to her mind when Mrs. Grass 
bolted the door, saying, “Servants are so inquisitive. I will just see 
that they do not intrude here.” 


She did not even notice that Mrs. Grass kept the key in her hand 
or that the door closed her way out of doors. Neither was she sus- 
picous when Mrs. Grass left the room to bring a pitcher of lemonade 
and some cake. She did detect a strange taste to the lemonade, and 
drank as little as she thought she dared for good breeding’s sake, but 
ate freely of the cake. She did notice that Mrs. Grass was very 

thTfl TtW ? P i al f °, r t her drink freely 0f the ]emonad e, despite 
the fact that she herself scarce touched it at all. Furthermore she 

felt a strange, dizzy ache in her head, and remarked that she must be 

going, feeling a consuming desire to get out into the open air 

Mrs Grass easily remarked, “Very well, dear; let me remove this 

tehLd n her. ^ left ' the the door 

The night lock being on the opposite side of the door from Irene, 



FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


153 


left her a prisoner, and sick as death from what she had drunk from 
the jeweled hand of Mrs. Grass. She was vaguely wondering why 
that lady did not return, when a familiar bass voice fell on her ear, 
saying, “Are you sick, girlie?” And meeting her look of surprise, he 
said, “I was here all the time, behind the high backed chair in the 
corner.” 

“What is your purpose?” asked Irene. 

“Oh, to love you and not be hampered by the Harshes.” 

“But they are my friends.” 

“I am your lover.” 

So saying he approaches Irene and lays his hands on her in a 
most familiar manner. Now she is thoroughly aroused, and rushing 
to the door finds it locked, and she a prisoner. She calls, but no 
answer save the wild beating of her own heart. Edward laughingly 
tells her, “Oh, my dear, we are prisoners here together. I have no 
key, have you? And you will find that the windows do not open. 
What an excellent chance to get acquainted with your future husband. 
All the while his tones were gentle, loving, pleading and kind, his 
actions becoming more and more familiar, and his emphasis of their 
future relation of man and wife more and more pronounced. As he 
forces her to receive his close embrace and the hot, passionate kisses 
he pours ip torrents on her flaming cheeks, in the excitement the drug 
on which he relied for help lost its power, and Irene proved a foeman 
worthy of his steel when she said, “Let me go, Edward, and see if 
you can open those doors. If then it proves there is no other way we 
will quietly consider together the things you have been saying.” 

One searching look told him she meant what she said, so he loos¬ 
ened his grasp and went to pretend to try to open the door. After 
a few moments of pretense he turns and faces—not the flaming 
cheeked and staring eyed girl of a few seconds ago, but her ghost, 
with calm, defiant eyes and pale lips and cheeks, but gently urging 


154 


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the blood to greater efforts as it gushes in torrents from a great 
gaping wound m her upper arm, down across the rich carpet of Mrs. 
Grass. Now the terror is in his own face, while she, with a peaceful 
smile holds to his view a little knife she always carries on her re¬ 
pair trips. Edward rushes wildly to her, calling loudly for help. 
W hen Mrs. Grass enters she finds him smeared with blood, but holding 
shut the wound from which the life he now so prizes would freely and 
quickly flow. In fierce, angry, accusing tones he directs Mrs. Grass 
ow to tie the artery, and then slowly and carefully removes his hand 
from the wound. Strange, but true, he now loves the pale, unconscious 
girl m his arms with as much strength as he would have used in con¬ 
tempt had she yielded to his evil desires. He calls Dr. _ w ho 

by the way, is very competent when he tries, and tells him it is ab¬ 
solutely necessary to save the life of -my future wife.” How ten¬ 
der y he watches over her, determining as soon as she is conscious to 
make her Ins wife and thereby atone for his sin, also to defeat the 
arm of justice should it call him to account. But, try as they will 
she cannot be brought back to consciousness enough to permit the 
ceremony to be performed, and yet the life lingered, seemingly ready 
to leave at any moment, still there, and so long as it remained Ed¬ 
ward hoped against appearances that she would live, and never did he 
doubt for one moment that she would become his own. So the days 
engthened into weeks, until he almost forgot the Harshes in his zeal 
to save the woman he now so ardently loved. 





FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


155 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

AN UNEARTHING. 

' 

Could the fruit of sin stop with the sinner it would probably not 
I have cost the unspeakable price it did to save a soul from sin. In the 
homes of the Harshes and Raymonds great turmoil prevailed, and as 
jtime w T ent on and Irene could not be found, Father and Mother Ray¬ 
mond almost lost their reason. Jack Harsh in his search watched 
J closely the death returns and one day in running back over them he 
found the death of Marie Jones. By careful and painstaking effort he 
: found when and where she w'as buried, and at wdiat address she died. 
The house looked so quiet and such an air of refinement prevailed 
that he could scarce think it could have any connection with Irene’s 
disappearance, so he made a trip to the home of Mrs. Jones and got 
the letter before mentioned. On his return he shadowed Edward, and 
found him going often to that address. 

Right here we must tell you the old friends in the “barrens” are 
astonished at the Raymonds. Jack Harsh has been down to see them, 
and he scarce had gone when Tom Raymond hired a young fellow 
and his wife to take charge of the farm for the ensuing year, and 
said they were going to take an extended trip—they “don’t know 
where all” themselves, and as they did not want to be bothered by the 
cares of the farm they left Jack Harsh as their agent, and the man on 
the farm dealt with him. 

They went first to that great absorbing sea of humanity, Chicago. 
After a brief letter or two from a well known and reliable hotel 
there, the earth seemed to open and swallow them so far as their 
friends at home knew, and they supposed that in the joy and ex¬ 
citement of travel they had for the time forgotten the old friends at 





156 


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home, “but,” say they, “we will hear all about it when they return.” 

As a matter of fact they went from Chicago to Indianapolis, 
where they occupied a neat, well-furnished cottage, and were wildly 
trying to find their child Irene. 

Mother Raymond, as she found out the ways and pitfalls of city 
life, which she did under Jack’s well directed search, almost lost her 
reason, and at times could scarce be restrained from doing violence 
to Edward Schilling, as she realized more and more that he very 
probably knew just where her darling was, and he undoubtedly was 
responsible for whatever evil had come to her, and God only knows 
what would have happened, only Jack would firmly tell her, “All 
right! do what you like, but bid farewell to all hope of ever finding 
Irene if you do.” 

Then after a siege of hysterical and frantic weeping, such as only 
a mother like her can know, she would rise up, disguise herself and 
go again with Jack on what seemed to her overwrought nerves and 
broken heart a fruitless search. Sometimes she wondered if Jack 
had a hand in it, and if he was only fooling when he seemed to try 
to help her. The police were so nice, she could hardly believe her ears 
one night when she and Jack were spending the evening, disguised as 
two country boys, at a house on Court street, and a man wearing a 
blue coat and brass buttons came in and said: 

“See here, you madame. You know that preacher’s daughter that 
started over on Senate, and is now here. Her folks got a tip somehow 
that she is here, and that we let her register, and they are down at 
headquarters and insist that we hunt for her. Now we are going to 
bring them here to search. You know the rest. I leave it to you. ° No 
trouble, mind you.” 

Then he went to the phone and calling headquarters told the one 
who answered to start at the end of the street and search diligently 
until they came to number -, naming the number at which she 







FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


157 


i and Jack Were so successfully playing “country Jake.” She was more 
astonished at the next move. The man of brass went his way, and a 
I little girl scarce in her teens was brought in and various fellows 
I coarsely jollied her and made familiar, and called her “parson.” She 
j seemed out of place, and so different from the other girls there that 
j “Country Bill, ’ as they called one we know as Mrs. Raymond, ven- 
? tured to ask, “Are you really a parson’s daughter?” and the girl 
| began crying and said, “Young fellow, come to my room, won’t you, 
j| please?” Then what a yell of ribald laughter went up from the gang, 
and they almost drove the poor girl wild with their taunts of “Oh, 
parson, you will get there,” “She wants to initiate ‘country,’ ” “Let 
; me go to your room, parson,” and such speeches too many to record. 
Then the madame came in and said, “Here, Sis, stop that sniffling 
and drink this. ’Twill be good for your nerves,” and as “Sis” hesi¬ 
tated and pleadingly said, “Oh, I don’t want it,” madame slapped her 
| and said, “Quit your nonsense. You know you need this. Take it.” 
j and so saying she pressed it to her lips and ’tw'as swallowed before 
j she could protest, and quickly the poor girl succumbed to a sort of 
| stupor from which “Country Bill” couid not arouse her. Then as if 
! in a joke, the madame gave one of the fellows a wig of partly gray 
hair from some head that had once been as black as night. Placing it 
on the unconscious girl’s head, the fellow asked “Country” if he 
loved her as much then as with her golden ringlets. 

Just then a haggard, heartbroken looking man and woman came 
in, accompanied by a man in brass buttons. They had apparently 
come in by some other door, and had been the rounds of the house, 
for the woman said to the man in brass, “Oh, sir, if you only knew 
what we have suffered! As you say, we should not have let her go, 
but my husband’s salary was small, and his burden for lost souls 
great, and the offer seemed reasonable and just what she needed, and 
we were so ignorant of what waited beyond our own home. We were 



158 


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so sure she was here. Are you sure I have seen all the girls here ?” 
and so saying she looked intently at the girl on the davenport, who 
seemed to be dead drunk. 

Jack had cautioned “Country” that he must act unconcerned, no 
matter what came to pass, but his quick move to stop him was a 
moment too late. With a wild cry “Country” sprang to the Daven¬ 
port, and tearing the false trappings from the sleeping girl, cried. 
Here, lady, is your little girl. I saw them drug and disguise her so 
you would not know her when you came. Take her home, for the 
love of God, take her home, and tell abroad her story, just as she will 
tell it to you if you let her do it, for the sake of other mothers and 
daughters.” 

Long before this speech was ended, the astonished mother had her 
helpless daughter in her arms and ran svildly into the street, she and 
ountry carrying the helpless girl bodily out of the house, both 
* U Y* a us 1 y ^ or ven geance and help. Tile man of brass could not 
touch the pandemonium that reigned, or disperse the sympathetic 
crowd that gathered, so he sent in a riot call, and also ordered a cab 
for the parson and his wife, and told them he would “look after the 
cop who tipped it off” that they were coming to look after the girl 
and as a piece of friendly advice he told them to take the first train’ 
home-that he would look into all the young fellow told, also find if 
he had any hand m her downfall. They took his advice, for as he 

n’ n n 0t m the Pap<!rS H WOuld likel y make trouble in their 
church at home and make it hard for the girl, “and if she has only 

been on a drunk by the time you go a few miles she will get all right” 

I 0 * key to . ok their helpless child and hurried for home, getting 
her on the tram as best they could, where she died without regaining 
consciousness before she reached home. Her story was never told at 

tTcouTd n t h b TZ Came b3Ck *° See ab " r “ "Co™ 
try could not be found, neither had they been able to locate the 




FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


inn 


patrolman wlio gave the tip. So he went home, a sadder, but some- 
what wiser man. 

As for “Country,” when the parson and his wife and child had 
gone, the man in blue who advised them to go arrested “Country,” 
and just as the patrol wagon came up Jack came near and said “Re- 
! fuse to talk to any of them, whatever threat they make. I will be 
there and see you through. Our success in finding whom you seek 
depends on your silence. If you love your own as much as you did 
that stranger keep silence—absolute silence. Don’t forget.” 

The man in blue turned on him saying: “See here, greenup, you 
clear out now, or I will take you down too. I think this is a woman 
anyway, and I have a good mind to take you along. How do I know 
but she is your mistress?” 

“Do it,” said Jack. “I would as lief ride down with ‘Country’ as 
not, and when we appeal to Criminal Court we will tell the public 
what we saw and heard down there. It would not be much surprise 
to me if they believed a couple of country jakes, as you like to call 
I us.” 

Much surprised but greatly chagrined and embarrassed, the man 
in blue loaded “Country” into the patrol wagon and drove off, leaving 
“Ike,” as Jack called himself, to say and do what he pleased. But 
somehow he realized that in this green-looking country lad he had a 
master. 

At the headquarters only a few worls would “Country” say. 
They were: “I am a woman. Don’t you men subject me to anything 
I can handle you for, or you may repent it.” 

At first they were somewhat taken back at her defiant declara¬ 
tion. Then as she did not appear really dangerous, they waxed 
bolder, and gave her the “third degree” with a vengeance, taunting 
her with the fact that her baby boy sweetheart had played her false, 
and about her honorable gray hair, and why did she not get sonny 




160 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


to take lier out, and all the taunts of which the “third degree” is 
capable, but she only cried and hung her head, and in no way could 
they get one word of her story or business to pass her lips. Just as 
they were at the height of their wild performance to make her tell 
all she knew, an officer came to the door and said, “This woman’s 
husband and a lawyer are here after her, and he has put up a cash 
bond for her, and you are to let her go.” 

What a trial to her not to express her joy, and when one of her 
tormentors said, “Now, madam, we want to warn you not to mention 
to a living soul what has been said or done here, for you know you 
committed a very grave offense to—” 

“Help those poor folks find their child,” she broke in. 

I meant to say, madam, to dress in men’s clothes.” 

With a defiant, indignant snort she whipped out of the room, 
without asking their pertnission or in any way consulting their 
wishes, but looking back she said, “I intend to tell Pa the whole 
thing—every word and act, remember, sirs.” 

Thoroughly dazed by surprise, they sit and glare at each other for 
a while and wonder how it happened and what it all means, when 
one of them said, “I guess shortly we won’t need to ask what hell is 
like. Let us watch where they go.” 

Two of them grab coat and hat and shadow the three figures 
going down the street, and see them go'to the Law Building, but when 
they get there they can find no trace of such people, and when after 
hours of waiting Jack comes out of the building alone, calm and 
self-possessed, they abandon the hunt after passing a few common¬ 
place remarks with him to find that he is tired and hungry, and is 
going home. 

The next morning he called at the home of Mrs. Grass and asked 

would l Tv, Sell a er ' 0TeIy h ° me ’ and what her Iowest ™sh price 
would be. She named a high figure, for she did not care to sell 






FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


101 


“Well,” said Jack, “that seems a little steep, but maybe the fin¬ 
ishings and appointments warrant it. Would you let me look 
through it (of course in your company), that I may decide if I 
want it or not? If it proves worth the price, the money is yours, the 
property mine, soon as I satisfy myself on the title.” 

So she shows him through. When they came to the room in 
which Irene lay she said, “My sister is sick, very sick, in this room. 
I guess you don’t want to see in there, do you?” 

“Indeed, I do want to see every closet and nook of a house I buy 
at that price,” says Jack. “I will be very quiet, but if your sister is 
so ill, by the time she is well will be too late for me. But I don’t 
buy unless 1 see it all.” 

Mrs. Grass hesitates, then asks, “Are you satisfied so far with 
the house? Do you like it?” 

“I like it very much,” said Jack. 

“Oh, well, then, go in,” and she opened wide the door. 

Now came Jack’s test of self-control. There lay Irene, pale and 
helpless, and moaning and muttering piteously about Peggy and 
mother and home, and then crying piteously, “No! No! Oh, please 
don’t! Won’t you go away?” and as they left the room she was 
saying in a voice of pleading, “No! No! No!” 

Mrs. Grass thought he pitied her, and immediately became very 
much affected. As she gently closed the door Jack said, “I beg your 
pardon, madam. I see you cannot give possession immediately. I 
hope I have not made your sister worse by my intrusion. Can you 
meet me up town in about an hour, at the rest room of any store 
you may name, and we will then proceed to go deeper into our busi¬ 
ness. I can wait for possession, but I want to know where I am at.” 

“I will be at Schilling’s or my lawyer’s, just as you say. Young 
Schilling is a great friend of my sister, and I want to advise with 
him about moving her. Of course after I see if we trade.” 




162 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


“You are wise in that, madam. No need to get him excited. I 
will not hurry your moving, I assure you, and young fellows do get 
excited sometimes, you know. However, do as you think best about 
that,” and lifting his hat he said, “Be there, madam, in one hour if 
you can, and bring your abstract. If I get there first I will wait, and 
you do the same if anything should delay me, for only death can I 
see as a hindrance to my coming. I am, much interested, and hope 
you will not keep me waiting long,” and he is off. 

Mrs. Grass hastens to get herself ready for the trip, and getting 
her documents from the vault she hurried to the rest room of the 
Schilling store, and there awaited the coming of Mr. John Isaac, as 
she believed him to be. 

Let you and I see w T hat John Isaac Harsh, as we know him to be, 
is doing, that she must w r ait so long. 

When he left her door he called a cab, good trusty Dr. Kempis 
and Tom Raymond to meet him at a certain point, some distance 
from the Grass mansion, but where he could observe her leaving. 
When he was sure she was gone they drove quickly to the house, and 
he and Mr. Raymond told the servant they came to take the sick 
lady to another private hospital, Jack using the fact of his just 
having been there to gain his point, and Father Raymond carried 
Irene bodily down, out, and into the cab and started for home, Dr. 
Kempis attending Irene and Jack driving, he having dismissed the 
cabby as soon as he delivered the cab. Those were the arrangements 
when he telephoned for the cab. In a short while Irene lay moaning 
in her mother’s clean white bed, still in care of Dr. Kempis, and 
Mother Raymond sat chafing her cold, blue hands and trying to get a 
word or look of recognition, but in vain. 

Jack hastened back and left his cab at the appointed place, and 
then to Schilling’s store, where he found Mrs. Grass waiting for him. 
She rose to meet him, so calm, so dignified and smiling, holding out 



FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


163 


lier bundle of papers, for already she felt the intoxication of the gold 
she hoped to get. After handing Jack the papers for examination she 
said, “Excuse me for a few minutes, Mr. Isaac. I want to make a 
small purchase over here, and will be back in a short time.” 

“Certainly, madam, take your time,” said Jack. 

Scarcely is her back turned when Jack quickly draws from a pocket 
in his coat the letter he procured from Mother Jones giving a detailed 
account of Marie’s experience, and as he opened the legal documents 
of Mrs. Grass he inserted it between the leaves, so when she returned 
and, as her kind is wont, made the examination of the abstract an 
excuse to hover over a man, they went over page after page, she 
leaning on the back of his chair and reading over his shoulder. Fin¬ 
ally he turns a page, and there before their eyes lays Marie’s letter to 
her mother. Both start reading, and she, when the import of it all 
dawns on' her, makes, a wild grab to take it away, but Jack, too quick 
for her, has it firmly in his own hands, and rising and carefully 
putting it in his inside coat pocket, says: 

“Sit down, madam. Your face and attitude tell me plainly that 
this letter is no practical joke, as one might hope on first reading. I 
must require of you to deliver to me this girl, and I will take her 
and her child to her mother. Or shall I go to the authorities with 
the letter?” 

As Mrs. Grass sat before the angel of vengeance, her suffering was 
pitiful to see. Purple with fear and rage, too dazed to think clearly, 
she tried to back up and start out anew on the line of “a practical 
joke,” and her terror being only that he being strange she feared he 
would think her a criminal, and that Miss Jones had roomed at her 
house and been quite troublesome, and any of her doings worried her. 

“Very well, madam; that makes your path smooth. Just turn 
her and her child over to me, and I will use this letter to make her 
go home.” 



164 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


At this she sits pale and speechless before him, and Jack thinks 
she will faint, but to his surprise she arises quite strong, and says, 
“Come. I will do as you say. It was Miss Jones you saw at my 
house. I only said my sister to shield her. As for tne child, my old 
butler, who is now in jail for stealing, is the only one who know's 
about it, and he is such a liar I doubt if you can believe one word he 
tells, but you can try.” This last assault was made on the butler's 
truthfulness to try to offset the truths she knew he would unearth 
if he went to the butler in jail. Reader, all the inconsistencies you 
and I see in her story she dimly saw, but she hoped to mend each 
rent lie with a bigger one, and, like all liars, she was hopelessly 
floundering in the “tangled web we weave, when first we practice to 
deceive.” 

I understood you she had roomed at your house,” said Jack. 

“I did say it. Her lover is loth to give her up to her folks, but I 
am not going to ruin myself to please him, and now I tell you the 
truth. Come with me and I will see that you get her.” 

She and Jack entered her cab and were driven rapidly to her 
palatial mansion on North - street, where he knew the sur¬ 

prise in store for her. When she stepped from the carriage her face 
was pink Avith the victory she thought she had gained, and she was 
chatting wuldly, but in the undercurrent of her mind a great tumult 
of scheming was going on. She ushered him in and up the stairs to 
the room in which she expected to find Irene. Grandly s^ie threw 
open the door and entered before she realized the bed was empty. 
Only for one moment was she balked now. White as death she turned 
to Jack, saying, “Did you ever see a poor lady so unfortunate? She 
has not gone to the bath room before for a long time. Be seated. 
No doubt she is there now. I will go and see.” 

So saying she rushes from the room, presumably to see if Miss 
Jones had gone to the bath room, but in reality to call the police to 





FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


165 


arrest Jack as a common burglar. On her way to the ’phone she 
stopped and quickly dumped the contents of several dressers on the 
floor, and then calling the police she hurried to her own room and 
packed such things as she w“as sure she needed for a hurried trip, and 
by the time the police arrived she was all ready for ner trip, they 
attributing her pallor and excitement to the shock of having a prowler 
in her house. 

The officers went upstairs and from room to room, seeing the 
disorder about, and they were all ready, when they opened the door 
of the room in which Jack was restlessly waiting, to slate him as a 
very bold daylight robber, and seriously wondered if he was not in¬ 
sane, from the wild tale he told. They took the ground that even 
the letter he carried from Marie was a wild frameup, whereby he 
hoped to establish his plea of innocence, and so he had to stay 
in jail until he could get bond. Tom Raymond would have helped 
him of course, but Jack did not want to connect his name with the 
affair at all, neither did he want to connect Peggy nor his law firm 
with the matter. 

He w r as in a rage at himself for the trap he had so unwittingly 
walked into, but that would not solve his dilemma. Finally he pre¬ 
vailed on a plain clothes man to go with him to the bank and he put 
up a cash bond and stepped out again a free man. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

FLIGHT, INTERCEPTION", CONFESSION, DEATH. 

Mrs. Grass was well aware that her relief from Jack’s search was 
only temporary, and as soon as he was out of her house she made 
haste to take the suit case she had packed, and to go to the bank and 



1GG 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


withdraw her entire account. She then visited her lawyer, leaving 
her affairs in his hands, with instructions to close the house, dismiss 
the servants, and keep strictly to himself any communications he 
might receive from her. He, being of her own kind and knowing her 
well, and to his own profit, could be relied upon to do as she asked, 
at least for the present, while her funds were plenty. 

All this she did, and caught the fast train for Chicago. From 
there she planned to go to New York, and if need be, from there 
abroad. 

By the time Jack got all we have recorded done, it was time for 
him to give account of himself at home, and he told Peggy and the 
Raymonds, at whose house he found her waiting, all that we have 
told you of his experiences, so that by the time he got back to town 
to swear out a warrant for Mrs. Grass she was several miles on the 
way to Chicago, and search as they might they could not get track of 
her, only that she had bought a ticket to New York, but all the 
modern methods of interception failed to locate such a lady goino- in 
that direction. ° 

While her puzzled pursuers were wondering and planning what to 
do next, and how she could so easily foil them, she was enjoying to 
the full a Pullman sleeper, but was not sleeping. She was planning, 
and had some elegant plans of escape laid, over which she chuckled 
as much as she did over Mr. Isaac in jail. She had her plan laid to 
spend a couple of weeks in Chicago, then a couple in Mobile, then go 
to New York and take passage for Italy. She would embark sooner 
she told herself, only she must give them time to decide she was not 
m New York. 

And,” said she to herself, “when they look westward, then I go 
east, and east.” 

Now she is again rosy and dimpled with the flush of victory, for 
as she has looked her plans over again and again she can detect no 




FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


167 


flaw in tliem at all. Sometimes she has a sinking fear lest she can¬ 
not reach Chicago, but will be intercepted before she gains that 
rogue’s haven or city of refuge, we might say. Now the smoke of the 
city is in sight—now a few straggling suburbs fly by—and now they 
are in the limits, and she has no fear, but settles back and dreams a 
new dream. 

You say, “I think at the depot would be her greatest danger.” 
She thought so, too, and planned to get off at one of the many 
nameless stops a train must make before Union Station is reached 
in that great sea of life, and so she- dreams and waits. She sees her¬ 
self quite prominent in Italy’s sunny clime, and pictures herself as 
the wife of some very prominent Italian. At least she plans to 
make quite an exciting conquest of hearts over there. Her dream is 
progressing nicely when the train stops, and she, gathering hastily her 
belongings, hurries from the train, and steps off just as it starts. She 
is thrown rudely to the ground, one foot being caught and ground 
off by the wheel of the train she has just left. She is found a little 
later, unconscious from suffering and loss of blood. Inside her suit 

case she had long ago pasted “Mrs. Amelia Grass, No.-, North 

- street, Indianapolis, Ind.,” and this she had forgotten to 

remove, and by it the hospital officials identified her. They sent a 
telegram to Indianapolis to tell her fate and where she was located. 
Strange as it may seem, Jack Harsh was with the Chief of Police 
at the time he received the telegram, and was talking of this very 
case, so of course he got the message and took the next train for 
Chicago, arriving there just about the time she became conscious, 
having in his possession a warrant for her arrest. He took with him 
a Chicago sleuth who was fair and willing to hear the truth, what¬ 
ever that might be. Together they waited for strength to return to 
the unhappy woman, that they might take her back home and deal 
out the law’s justice. 





168 v FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 

In the meantime they made known to her physician the char¬ 
acter of his patient, that he might not resent their close surveil¬ 
lance. So they wait and so she lingers on the border land of death, 
but seemingly cannot cross. 

After a few days of waiting she rallies and seems quite strong, 
and sending for the doctor she consults him thus: 

“Doctor, am I seriously injured?” 

Yes, madame, you have lost your right foot, and are seriously 
ill from loss of blood, the exposure before you were found, and nerve 
shock.” 

“Examine me, and see if I am going to die.” 

“Very well, Mrs. Grass; I will do as you say.” 

“How did you get my name?” 

“Well, at first we got it from your suit case, and then the gen¬ 
tleman who came here from your home city calls you by that name.” 

Hope that it was Edward Schilling sprang into her heart, and she 
asked, “May I see that gentleman—may I see him now?” 

“If you promise not to get excited you may.” 

“Why should I get excited at seeing a friend? I tell you I will 
see him now! Send him in, I say!” she cried angrily. 

“Very well, madame,” replied the doctor, and he sent the nurse 
to bring Jack. 

She had risen up on her elbow, hopefully expectant of seeing Ed¬ 
ward enter. When Jack’s strong form entered the room she sank 
back pale and moaning. The doctor quietly went on with the ex¬ 
amination she had asked him to make. Before he was through she 
half rose, and looking Jack in the face, asked: “What charge have 
you against me?” 

“White slave trafficking, perjury, and murder in the first degree.” 

Wringing her hands and moaning piteously, she tried to get out 
of bed, and then, discovering the loss of her foot, she fell back cry- 




FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


169 


ing so piteously that all tried to comfort her. Even Jack said: 
“Mrs. Grass, if you are not guilty, tell all you know and save your¬ 
self from the consequences of being the dupe of others more guilty, 
possibly, than yourself.” 

This advice partially calmed her, and after weeping quietly, she 
asked the doctor: “Do you find that I am to live or die? Or can you 
tell? Mind I want the truth, whatever it may be.” 

“Well, madame, even if the charges against you are true, they 
will never be pushed in this world. So make your care for the world 
to come.” 

“Then I am going home to die in my own bed, surrounded by my 
own servants.” 

“Madame, you cannot go home, and were you to do so, you would 
probably be locked up instead of going to your own home. It is 
time for you to think seriously, instead of following your hitherto 
wild way.” 

Finally, after lying calm for some time, she aroused herself and 
said: “If I only had my two feet I would show you folks something 
yet. As it is, I am going home. Let come what may, I must see the 
old home place again. Why man, I paid for that place with my 
soul. I WON’T die till I see it again!” and she rose to get ready 
to go, but fell back fainting, and they thought she was gone. 

But after a long time she rallied, and a great change, a fearful 
change, had come over her. Her eyes were wild and staring, her lips 
blue, and in her eye was written death, yet she was strong, and 
would sit propped up in bed, and insisted on seeing her limb from 
which the foot had been removed, and then the lost foot, and so she 
went on. She gave the doctor a good price, and got his promise to 
stay with her to the end, and to prolong her life as long as he could. 
Then again she sank into unconsciousness, and then rallied, so that 
about half of the time she was rational and the other half dazed. 




170 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


Finally a great nervousness took possession of her, and she became 
uneasy, and talked freely, and would not be quiet, though the doc¬ 
tor urged her to do so, under penalty of shortening her few brief 
hours of time. Finally she said, “Send Mr. Isaac here,” and Jack 
stepped forth, saying, “I am Mr. Harsh, Mrs. Grass, Jack Harsh. 
iNo doubt you have heard of me before.” 


With a puzzled, surprised look, she said, “I surely have, Mr. 
Harsh Now get your pen and paper and write what I say, and 
when I am gone you may use it freely to undo as far as possible 
what I and hundreds of others have done. I cannot die till I tell it.” 
He came with the paper and pen, and she began: 

,‘‘ My Iife is 80 stee P ed w i«> crime, I scarce know where to begin.” 
At your first known and remembered sin,” said Jack.” 

After thinking a moment she went on: “Well, when I was a little 

He wa™ n ‘TinT 0ld ’ 1 Went With a boy Pirate to a party. 
He was my little lover, as those things go among children. I loved 

him then, and I love him now. On the way home from the party 

”f r f e “ the park> and ln the shade of a great dak he told me 
a wonderful story of sex and love-a story I was too young to hear 
but should have heard before I was allowed to go out with a boy 
I blame mother for that and many other things. Somehow the 
story appealed to me. I listened; I yielded to him. As soon as it 

TuTs n" H k e! !! ,Zed 1 h i ad d0 " e Wr ° ng ’ VCTy wron S> and wept for 
sin. He kissed me and asked me some day, as soon as I was old 

enough, 0 be Ins wife. I gladly said I would, and wished I was old 

enough then, for my childish heart was full of fear. From that day 

was under his power. He domineered me as he liked, and I took 

it, afraid to disobey him, afraid to tell any one what had happened 

Before I was s.xteen I found that motherhood would soon be my lot' 

and at Ins command we both ran away and lived together but were 

not married. Finally he tired of me, and sold me to a life of shlme! 




FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


171 


and made me support my child in that way. Soon it died. Then 
! he married me, but was always cruel and distrustful of me. I was 
' not careful and true, as all good wives are, but still clung to many 
of the old ways of the life from which I came. Finally he aban¬ 
doned me altogether. The allowance he made me would at early 
periods of my life have been ample to meet my every desire, but in 
the extravagant way I had learned it scarce met what I considered 
absolute necessities. Then I was offered good money for procuring 
girls for houses of shame, and I began. The highest price I ever got 
for a girl was six hundred dollars. I did it this way. The madame 
gave me three hundred, and the young money prince who wanted to 
get rid of her paid me the other three hundred. But the average 
' price of the average girl is one hundred dollars and expenses, so I 
j got the hundred clear, and sometimes I got eight or ten girls in a 
week. I went to the country districts and sold anything, just so I 
got a chance to get at their high class girls. I made friends of them 
and poisoned their minds by making them think that they were 
abused at home—that their mothers were not just what they tried 
to make them think they were, and next they would strike for the 
city, and the rest was easy. I soon had the price and they the life 
of shame. I seem to see the poor little things now. How they 
struggled to get free when they found what they were into, and each 
struggling effort seemed to only sink them deeper into the web of 
despair in which they were caught. Once in a while we got a girl 
like Marie Jones, who would defy us all—the registry system, the 
police, the madame, the trafficker, the fellow at the house who bossed 
her, and all. Then we made short work, and I signed a death certifi¬ 
cate. That is your perjury charge, is it not?” 

“Yes,” said Jack. “Go on.” 

She rested, then continued. “Well, in Marie’s case, I knew Mr. 
Schilling wanted very much to get rid of her—in fact, he said he 





172 


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must. He paid me well, as far as money goes, for my services. I 
must deliver liim, or return the price. I would not do that, so Dr. 

- and myself went together and put her out of the way. The 

people to whom I sold her are still clamoring for their money back, 
because she would not stay there unless full of dope. I would not 
pay it back, for I got them another girl, a little daughter of a coun¬ 
try minister, as shy and pure as a lily.” 

At this point of her confession a wild, scared look crossed her 
face, and she cried: “My God! There she stands now, and her mother 
at her side. Go away, honey; I know you suffered something terri¬ 
ble, but go away. I haven’t much time. Go away. I know—we 
laughed and jeered when you knelt and prayed—but go away now. 
Yes, who mocks the law and religion must suffer. Who is the 
handsome stranger at your back, little girl? I am afraid of Him. 
Take Him—away! Who did you say? Christ—Christ—let me—see. 
Who is Christ? It seems like I heard that name before. He looks 
so angrily at me. Take Him, girlie, and go your way. He seems to 
be your lover. I don’t like His looks. He looks religious, too. Go 
away, and let some one else come in your place.” With a wild cry, 
from which the voice of pleading had gone, she shrieked: “Damn you, 
Satan! Go away! Go away! I know you! I can’t go along with 
you! Oh, little girl, come—bring your Christ and come back, out of 
the awful dark—there they go—Marie, Clara, Ida, Margaret, Nellie— 
don’t go so fast, girls—I can’t name you. There they go—yes, they 
are all there. Oh, why did you all go by now, when time is so very 
precious? Oh, doctor, time! More time! I cannot go! Can’t you 
send him away? See his horrid—grinning face—as he—points—to— 

the clock! Water! Oh-h-h! My God—give me water—Doctor_ 

help! Satan—have you—no mercy? Oh, the butler—Mr. Harsh—he 
never stole—I put the—necklace in his trunk and had—him arrested 
—so—he—could—not—interfere—or tell—let him loose. Oh, doctor, 




FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


173 


for God’s sake, save me, save me! Just one hour—can’t you see he 
stands there waiting for my—SOUL?” and as she wailed the word 
soul as I hope few beings may ever say it or hear it said, she lapsed 
into a semi-conscious state, and seemed struggling with some unseen 
power. Her face was black and the blood oozed from her mouth 
where she had bitten her tongue, and a peculiar noise came from her 
throat—a half growl and a half moan. I have not half described it, 
so much of combat, and yet so much of frightened pleading was in 
the sound that it is hard to describe, but once heard it can never be 
forgotten. Her flesh took on a purple hue and her hands were rigid 
and clenched. Her foot kept the cover moving, and finally she opened 
her eyes, and in a feeble, fearful, cowering voice and manner, gave a 
piercing, moaning cry of—“D-a-m-n—-you—Satan, I—won’t go—” and 
clutching the bed clothes with her hands, and ducking as if dodging 
a blow, and uttering again the half-growling moan, she passed from 
this world to meet a just God, who cannot be bought by the gold 
for which she had sold her soul. For some hours we watched her 
before we called the undertaker. We really expected her to come 
back, and we listened for that moan that had so frozen and broken 
our hearts, but it never came, and the undertaker found, when he 
went to prepare the body for burial, that in her struggling she had 
opened the wound of her amputated limb, and that she had died in 
a great pool of her own blood. 

Now I wish I had told her to call on God for mercy, but maybe 
she would have been by Him like she was by His Christ, whose 
image came to her to give one last chance, even as to the thief on 
the cross. She would have begged that He go away. 

As for the Chicago detective, he was so wrought up, that as soon 
as her life was gone he rushed out to telegraph the news to her 
home city, and to order the immediate release of the butler and the 
arrest of Edward Schilling. 






174 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


We took Mrs. Grass back home, and to the crowd of her own 
kind of folks who gathered I told this story somewhat as I have 
told it to yon. They wept loud and copiously, and went their several 
ways. Let us hope some of them heeded the warning. Many, I fear, 
looked eagerly at her richly furnished mansion, and delved deeper 
into the way of death. But if one heard and heeded, there is much 
joy in Heaven over “one sinner that repenteth,” and surely of that 
great throng there was at least one such. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


FOUR HOMES—RAYMOND’S, THE BUTLER’S, HARSH’S. 


schilling’s. 


Let us peep into the Raymond home first. Irene is gradually im- 
pro\ing, and glad to be at home. She is conscious now, and little by 
little, as her strength would permit, has told father and mother her 
story, and now that her mind is easy she rests as she has not rested 
since she left the old home. Her rest is like that of a child—peace¬ 
ful, calm, trusting. 


From day to day the papers detail an account of Marie Jones as 
her life and experiences are brought more and more to light, and of 
the arrest of Schilling and his part in the affair, and of the myster¬ 
ious disappearance of Irene Raymond, another country girl who 

Im ke h 7 ‘nm St ° re ' A1S ° “ P ublication of the truth, hut 

somewhat wildly exaggerated, given by one of the servants to a re- 

porter, and a wild tale of her people, their wealth and their travels 

, DeXt day gaVC a " interview Schilling’s mother, stat¬ 
ing that her son was betrothed to Miss Raymond, and that they 
were going to marry as soon as the son was free. Also that at first 






FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


175 


slie and his father had objected oil the ground of fear lest Miss Ray¬ 
mond was his social inferior, but on investigation they had found 
her to be a fine girl, and all of them a family of excellent character 
and some means, and quite worthy of any mother’s son. She did not 
say they knew of her whereabouts, but implied as much. And so the 
excitement kept going until every home, humble and great, knew 
and talked the facts concerning the white slave trade. Other cities 
took it up, and the light of day was shed on the business until the 
distant toll of the death knell of the “social evil” could be faintly 
heard throughout the length and breadth of the land. 

Still the Raymonds did not put in an appearance. The Schil¬ 
lings were quite annoyed. They had hoped that Mother Schilling’s 
statement to the paper over her signature, published far and near 
as it was, would bring them some word from the Raymonds, and to 
be thus ignored when they were accustomed to be sought after was 
to them a great trial. They began to fear that Mrs. Grass had 
killed Irene, and employed some very fine detectives to try to find 
her. All they could find was that two men had come to the house 
and taken her away soon after Mrs. Grass left, and that they said 
they were taking her to another hospital—where, they did not know. 
Then Edward went wild. He who had been implicated indirectly in 
the sale of so very many girls realized that “whatsoever a man 
soweth that shall he also reap,” and that now he loved with all his 
soul this little girl Irene. He had been the indirect cause of her 
being sold as a white slave, and he in a felon’s cell, powerless to get 
out and look for her. As month after month went by with no sign or 
word from her he almost lost his reason. Could he have pitied him¬ 
self it would have been different, but he had manhood enough left in 
his soul to realize that he had bid for all his suffering—yes, spent 
many dollars to bring it on. 




176 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


Like all English, the Raymonds had laid well their plans for the 
future, and resolved that all his professed care was only talk, and 
that he hoped to get hold of Irene and further torture her by using 
her as a tool to lighten his own load, and so they lived on quietly, 
making no acquaintances, and when pressed to give a name, as a few 
times they were, they gave Mr. Raymond’s middle name, Henry, and 
were known as the Henrys, who were so queer and hard to get ac¬ 
quainted with. Irene is almost well, and as she still loves Edward 
as she thought him to be, but not as she found him to be, she says 
she will never again care for a man, arid so there is no need to break 
their solitude. Mr. Raymond has grown a heavy beard, and who¬ 
ever comes gets no response unless he is at home and goes to the 
door himself. His looks are so changed that at one time the de¬ 
tectives came to the house, having shadowed Jack Harsh and seen 
him go there, but he told them franlcly that his name Was Thomas 
Henry, and answered all their questions so frankly that they went 
back and told Edward in his cell that no such folks as he wanted 
lived there, and his hopes again died in despair. 

Who can tell ? Had Irene known of his sufferings, at least of his 
fears for her, she no doubt would have struggled to have him re¬ 
leased. But as she slowly returns to health she quietly remains at 
home, dead to all his entreaties, believing them to be for effect 
and seeing in them no note of sincerity, though long ago he came 
out with a frank statement of the truth, saying he did not know 
where she was, stating his fears, and offering a reward for her re¬ 
lease should she be held anywhere, that he hoped was large enough 
to induce her captors to gladly let her go. Then he tried to get In 
touch with the old butler and enlist his help, but when he was re¬ 
leased he went quietly back to Mary and the babe, and for reasons 
we can well guess he did not intend to get mixed again with that 
gang, as he told Mary, and he had disappeared so quietly and quickly 




FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


177 


that no one knew where he had gone, for, as you remember, they 
did not know he had a sister. He and Mary and the babe were very 
happy on the farm. It knew and loved them both, and would sit in 
its chair at the window and watch for his coming, and make merry 
when he came. He had Marie’s picture enlarged and hung in the 
parlor, and often would take the child in his arms and stand before 
her picture and talk of our poor mamma who went to heaven. And 
so their peace flowed on like a river. 

At the Harsh home all is joy and expectancy, and Peggy goes 
often to the Raymonds, for Irene is not yet able to come to her, and 
when she goes, Irene is always improved, and Peggy always carries 
the rattan suit case we mentioned her taking to Mother Harsh’s the 
day before the wedding when she went as she supposed to help dust 
and clean. Now if it should accidentally open as she enters the car 
what a sight we should see of little garments of beautiful workman¬ 
ship and dainty materials, fine enough for a very large doll. So she 
lives on, modest as can be, but glad and happy in the joy of prom¬ 
ised motherhood. Jack is very busy and happy, and never tires when 
at home for the evening with the cares of the day locked out and he 
and Peggy locked in, of looking at the wonderful little garments that 
Peggy is so deftly fashioning. He has learned to run the machine 
for her, and does it quite well, and many stitches'in the little ward¬ 
robe he put there himself. 

At the home of the Schillings all is gloom and dread. Every meal 
time, every bed time and rising, reminds them forcibly of the son 
wasting away and eating out his heart in a felon’s cell, until the 
proud airs and haughty manners once so common there are now a 
thing of the past, and occasionally now you will find an open Bible 
there, and it shows marks of having been read, or if you walk softly 
in you will find the mother, whose locks are becoming sprinkled with 
silver, on her knees, pleading with the God who less than a year 


178 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


ago she laughed at, and said He was only for weak women and 
young children. Now she calls earnestly for His help, while the big 
tears roll in torrents from her eyes. Let us slip away. It makes 
me sad to see her grief. Do you suppose her prayers will help her 
wretched, wicked son in jail for murder? 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE TRIAL. 


At last the trial begins when Edward and Dr. - are to be 

tried for their part in the murder of Marie Jones. They have the 
best counsel that the Schilling money can procure. Day after day 
Edward was dragged over in irons to hear a recounting of his life 
and relations with Marie, until he was thoroughly sick and sore, and 
so disgusted with himself that he would gladly have sunk into the 
earth and out of the sight of all men, and found himself when in his 
cell wondering and picturing what would very probably come up, and 
wondering who would tel. it, and how near they would get it right 
and suie enough it would come, and come just as hideous as it was 

wlthhL'Tf I®” V? hiS Ce " m ° re diSgUSted and discouraged 
with himself than ever before. And so the days wore on Dr 

went on the stand and made Edward look more black than'all the 

other witnesses. The usual crowd attended, and always amon. their 

“r: a me<Um ? ! r d ' teard <* who listened attentively 
to all that was said and done, and when Edward went on the stand 

ay TaTr t ‘W™ 1 Hstened to all he had to 

stfrie d broken < h°Pel<*s voice he confessed to his relations with 
Mane and other girls, but stuck doggedly to his story that he had 




FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


179 


never knowingly liad a hand in the death of any one. The judge 
asked him of his relations with Miss Raymond, and strange to say 
he broke down and wept like a woman. Finally calming himself 
enough to tell the story, as we already know it to be up to the time 
of her disappearance, he finished by saying: “I know she is a pure 
girl and a true woman, different from the majority. I fear Mrs. 
Grass has done her harm and taken advantage of her weak and sick 
condition. Would my death restore her to her mother I would gladly 
die. I now never could harm her, for I really at last know the 
power of love for her and for her only.” 

So broken was he that all present believed his story. No word of 
pity or excuse did he offer for himself. All he expressed was shame 
and blame. 

As he and Dr.-were the last witnesses the trial closed and 

went to the jury, who the next morning returned a verdict of murder 
in the first degree. 

The judge had them stand to receive sentence. To Dr. -he 

spoke thus: “Doctor, you have associated with a very bad class. You 
have extreme sympathy for yourself, and very little either mercy or 
pity for those whom you have so grossly wronged and made to suffer, 
that you might, as you thought, gain. I have seen so many of your 
kind receive mercy, only to trample it in the mire and think they 
deserved more, instead of thankfully and humbly trying to make 
good. I sentence you in thirty days from this date to die in the 
electric chair, and may the God of peace and mercy grant you peace 
and pardon for your soul. 

“As for you, Schilling, I marvel that one of your opportunity 
could be guilty of the villainy your own lips have confessed. On 
general principles you ought to die. With all your golden oppor¬ 
tunities of every kind—education, culture, position, wealth and 
ability—it seems to me you have used it all to damn and not to 







180 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


bless the world. I only see one redeeming feature in your case. 
That is, you have only blame and shame for yourself, and now that 
it is too late you would fain have mercy on those you have wronged. 
I have known men like you to make good if given a chance. I be¬ 
lieve you would do so. I can only sentence you to death in the 
electric chair m thirty days from now, and recommend you to seek 
mercy from a just God.” 

The doctor cried and raved, and tried to do himself violence, rail¬ 
ing at Edward and blaming him for his trouble. 


Edward sat down, pale and trembling, and no word escaped his 
lips, except that m a clear voice he said, “I am not guilty of murder.” 

They are both taken back to jail to await execution, which is to 
take place in thirty days, and again time drags by, until twenty- 

e ! gh L d ? yS liaVG g ° ne ‘ Then the doctor £ ot re9tless and se nt for the 
sheriff to come. Like his kind, he gives Schilling more credit than is 

his due even as before he gave him blame. In a broken, tearful voice 
he confesses that he and Mrs. Grass did the killing, and that Schil- 
ing had nothing to do with it, only as they bluffed him into helping 
bury her to hide their part in the game, and that he was really not 

1 r 6 th + G 1 kind ° f fUneral that WaS ^ iven tat that he 
told them privately he was sorry she died, sorry he ever ruined her, 

and felt he owed her a good, decent burial, and that was why they 
ook her home, so as to leave her name untarnished there 
Of course they released Schilling after due form of law, and two 
days later the doctor went cringing to the electric chair, cryin* pite¬ 
ously to God for mercy as long as he could speak. Let hs hope he 
did not ask m vain, for the old Book says, “Him that cometh to Me, 

merciful Go I** ^ ^ W ® ^ ^ in the hands of a J ust tat 




FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


181 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


THE NEW EDWARD FREE. 

As soon as he was free Edward hurried home and the Schillings 
had such a home coming as was to them entirely new. Each of them 
recounted their own mistakes and told of new resolves for the 
| future. Edward spoke of his desire to spend his share of their im- 
j mense fortune, should he still have a share, in trying to get laws to 
; prevent “young fools like I have been from bringing on everybody in 
I sight the trouble I have made for all of us and others. I still want 
i a place in the store if you will have me, father, and if you do not 
: think I will kill the business, but I want to spend as much on the 
i| line I just mentioned as I have in the past on evil things, for surely 
if God ever wrought a miracle to free a man He has to set me free. 
I want to make good for Him. It is right I should. I owe it first 
to Him, second to the humanity I have so grossly wronged, and 
third to myself. I really believe this is my last chance, and if I fail 
now to make good the shame and suffering which I have not only 
I been through myself, but that which I have brought on you whom I 
j love, regardless of how I have made it look as if I were dead to your 
j interests, will be multiplied many times. I will relinquish to you, 
j father, my share of the business, and give you my note for the bal¬ 
ance of this expensive trial to which I so unnecessarily put you, and 
the suffering and shame and humiliation, mother, to which I put you 
I never can repay. I will try for the future to so live that I may 
in some measure atone to you for it all. Pray for me, mother, that 
I fail not. Do not look for me a wife any more. I shall never marry, 
unless I can find and win Irene. I fear she is dead, and if alive she 
would likely scorn to link her name, which never knew a tarnish 




182 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


except at my hand, with mine. I cannot blame her. Nevertheless, 
my first purpose is to serve God and humanity and to find and save 
her from any evil my acts have brought on her, and secondly to win 
her as my wife and your daughter, and as a sister to you, my poor 
sister, whose prospects I fear I have ruined for life. I will do my 
best to make back to you that which through me you have lost. 
At any rate be a good, true, quiet woman; value virtue above every¬ 
thing else in this world, and as a great asset in the world to come, 
for remember, sister mine, woman without virtue is like a wilted,' 
withered, rotting flower, robbed of its beauty and fragrance, which 
maketh a stench in the nostrils, and whose beauty, worth and frag¬ 
rance no amount of paint, apparel or money can imitate or restore, 
and whose stench no perfume is fine or strong enough to kill or hide. 
You are such a nice girl; I want you to remain so, and some time 
some good man will come your way who will honor you more that 
you are such a good girl, when you have such a profligate brother, 
and God always has a happy, useful place for a good, godly woman 
to fill, though she never marry.” 

The father and mother wept silently while he was talking, and 
could think of no word of reply, save to say: “We, too, have made 
many grave mistakes, children. We hope to correct them all.” Not 

S °„ Wlt L ArVilIe - She Seemed gTOW sud <knly very angry, and 
said: Dear me sir; then you think I cannot get a good husband. 

, me ’ plcase ’ have 1 been any worse than yourself? And you are 
planning to marry one of the best of women, by your own tell If 
you are good enough for her, why am I not good enough for a good 
man? I am supposed to have as much money as you.” 

In her blind rage she seemed to not realize what she was saying 
Not so with the rest of the family. Every tear is dry now, and 

, “ t ' " ■— “*■ — 



FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


183 


Why, little sister, how bad are you, anyway ?” 

How bad am I? How bad are you (or have been)? Just as 
bad as yourself, sir. You and I know what that has been.” 

“Oh, sister, please don’t. Haven’t I suffered enough? I know 
you are a good girl. Please don’t mock me. You indeed make me 
see how terrible it would be had you followed my example. I am 
more than glad you did not. I would be more to blame than you 
were it true, and I think I should die, it would be so terrible.” 

Then die, for I have aimed to keep track of your doings and 
keep pace with them. Go to any resort in which you have been 
and ask them if they know Carroll Carmen. Get the details of her 
exploits of any date, then come to me and name the date and see 
if I am not able to tell you all about her. I am she.” 

“My God, sister; I fear you tell the truth.” 

A dry, mocking laugh escapes her, as she says: “And you fear 
your good little sister tells the truth. What is the reward for 
lying? I might be persuaded to tear off a few.” 

“I do not want you to lie, but I so wanted you to be pure. Oh, 
God! if I could only die!” 

I felt just like that about you at first. Then as men invited me 
for trips, and as I saw more and more your life and then your high 
standing, I cared less and less. Then I looked upon you as very 
wise that you could lead such a double life and do it so well. Next 
I wondered if I could do the same, and one night after a masked 
ball I found myself robbed of my real girlhood and successfully hid 
[it from you and mother. Then I felt that I, like my brother, was 
| very wise. I delved deeper and deeper into your kind of life until a 
i little more than two years ago when I was supposed to be at Niagara 
Falls I was living not far from you and Marie Jones with a well- 
knows traveling man of whom you and father buy many of your 
supplies. Of course we could not keep it up long like you folks did, 




184 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


and as it was you know how mother worried that I did not write. 
Well, now you know, and further, let me tell you that if brothers 
want good sisters and men want good wives they must walk the 
good road themselves, for sure as life most of the wives and sisters 
are going to follow the pace set by husbands and brothers, and the 
old idea of a beautiful frail flower modestly growing in some obscure 
corner and patiently waiting for some wild bull who claims it for his 
own to come tearing by and paw it up, that he may revel in its 
beauty and its fragrance, is a myth, not a stern reality, and every 
husband and brother might as well know now and forever that these 
frail beauties are looking to them and going to follow where they 
lead. I admit a few exceptions in women of strength, but they are 
not the kind I have just described in any way, and they will give 
you enough of your meanness in some other way. Now, sir, don’t 
forget; I have followed your example and expect to continue to do 
so, whether your path be crooked or straight.” 

So saying, she arose and with burning cheeks and defiant, blazing 
eyes, went rapidly up the stairs and to her own room, and locked 
the door, resolving not to be seen again while her shame pressed her 
so heavily. No one thought of following her. Mother sat with hands 
clenched together, staring into space. Father fidgeted nervously and 
sought in vain for some excuse to get away, for somehow the words 
of his daughter were burning in his conscience until sane thought 
seemed an impossibility. Edward’s mind seemed doubly quickened. 
His own track seemed painted not only black, but the paint was 
full of varnish, so that it was such a sharp, glistening black that it 
hurt his eyes to look. Then he saw what it meant to her for the 
future* and his heart was wrung with pain almost to bursting, and 
his groans were so deep they seemed almost to come from another 
world. Finally he arose, and donning hat and coat, said: 



FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


185 


“Mother, I am going to Harsh’s. If I can find Irene she can 
help us.” 

When alone the mother became hysterical and the father found 
relief in ministering to her needs. 

The next time the Schillings will meet will be at the breakfast 
table. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

AN INTERVIEW. 

Edward went like an arrow to the home of the Harsh’s. Had he 
; been quicker he would have caught sight, through an upper window, 
of a form very dear to him, but the pair of eyes spied him first, 
I and so were not in sight, and the nurse met him at the door and told 
him where to find Mr. Harsh’s office, and to his entreaty, “Please, 
may I see Mrs. Harsh?” was told, “She is the mother of a little son 
i just a few short hours old, and I cannot admit you. I will tell her 
you were here and present your card, but I say you must not see 
] her.” 

“Excuse me, ma’am. I see you are right. But give her my card 
( and well wishes and congratulations. A son. That is fine. And 
are both doing well?” 

“Quite well, thank you, but must not be disturbed.” 

“You are right, ma’am. Good-day.” 

He is off again and is soon in Jack’s office. Strange he does 
not feel ill at ease as he used to do when in Jack’s presence, and 
that old feeling of antagonism and of desiring all of Jack’s posses- 
| signs is gone. Jack, in turn, is surprised at the brotherly feeling in 







186 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


his heart for Edward, and as they unburden their hearts to each 
other, he finds his powers strangely taxed to keep from holding out 
to him the strong hope of winning Irene. 

“And yet,” he reasons to himself, “if I were he I would want to 
feel that I found and won her myself, and not that some other mjm 
did it for me, but if I find him sincere, and I believe he is, I will 
surely be somewhat of a cat’s paw for him, unconsciously, of course.” 

Edward has no thought of what is in Jack’s mind, and sincerely 
plans to avenge his Irene and Arville of the terrible wrongs he has 
done them, and then to make atonement to all humanity for the evil 
he has helped to do. 

“I begin,” he says, “by giving you the true history of all I know 
of this accursed social evil.” 

He would make a statement, then Jack would carefully draw 
him out. Were we to print here all he told in detail, this little 
volume could never go to press, but when they finished Jack knew 
all the harrowing details of a life of shame, and could look at it, 
not with the eyes of one in whom much of the good had died from 
the Bin of commission, but a good, pure man, untouched by the 
guilt and shame of the sin. He knew the part the police had played 
and why they did it all—the pressure used to induce their part: the 
madame’s part, and why; the scheme and game of seducing and 
holding girls; in turn the scheme and plan of inducing boys to fol¬ 
low in that way. As Jack listened he looked back and remembered 
many times when Edward had tried to make him feel small for his 
quiet ways of frugality and peace. Looking Edward in the eye he 
said, “I think I am conscious of some of those efforts having been 
put forth in my behalf.” 

One moment they look eye to eye. Then Edward drops his eyes 
and reddens in shame, but holding out his hand says, “God has for- 
given me. I wish you could and would.” 






FRESH FROM THE BARREN'S 


187 


Jack grasped liis hand and said, “In the light of the change in you 
| I do, and in your new life count on me for a friend and helper.” 

“I surely thank you, Jack, and further, I want to thank you with 
my whole heart that you constantly resisted me. Had you not, 
I might never have been brought to repentance. You was the first 
man of my age who did not try to effect knowledge of the things of 
which you shamed me, and of which I am now so ashamed. So many 
people think it smart to be bad, even when they have not the nerve 
to actually do those things, and so their purity does not count. You 
was always different, and so if I make good, with the help of God, 
I will be a star in your crown. Now I must go, and I take it that 
young man at home wants to see father, for I believe you are very 
1 punctual. In the morning we meet and frame the bill, did you not 
: say?” 

So each went his way, Edward to spend all night writing what he 
thinks will be a death blow to the social evil, Jack to talk it over 
with Peggy and Irene, and get their opinion of what they think will 
do the work of rooting out the last vestige of that terrible business, 
traffic in souls. Jack also tells a very pleasing story of the change in 
Edward, to which Irene listens with throbbing pulses and silent 
tongue. All night she tosses and wonders, and by morning she has 
resolved to talk to father and mother about it, and if they are willing 
too, and Edward makes good, to let him know of her whereabouts. 
She tells Jack and Peggy of her plan, and goes home to consult father 
and mother at the same hour that Jack starts to meet Edward to 
frame the bill for the legislature. 

Father and mother are much pleased, but ask to talk it over alone 
before advising her, and to their surprise she dons a broad brimmed 
hat and an old pair of gloves, and next they see her working in the 
yard, and hear her humming a tune. “Oh, mother, what can it 




188 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


mean ? It is our child come back. See, she is Irene again. What can 
it mean? Do you know?” 

With a sad smile the old mother calmly answers: “Father, to 
me it is very clear. It means this: Our pure darling loves that 
profligate man.” 

“Once profligate, mother! once profligate.” 

Lifting her finger as if in warning, and lifting her voice as well, 
Mother Raymond says: “Father, our Irene loves that PROFLI¬ 
GATE man. And whether she will marry him or no, she is happy 
beyond measure because he is going to be good, and the reason you 
and I have been unable to restore her to health or cheer her was that 
her heart was in a prison cell, and her pure soul was suffering, the 
just for the unjust!” 

Almost in a whisper of awe father says: “And now she can love 
him all she wants to, and marry, and come home at holidays with 
a nice family of babies, and they will maybe cry to go to see grand¬ 
pa and grandma, and we will go back home and cook and clean and 
work for their coming. We must love him too, for her sake. Oh, 
mother, can it be tme? Won’t it all be fine?” 

A look of contempt mingled with scorn passes over mother’s 
face, as she sits silent with tightly clasped hands for a brief space, 
seemingly struggling with unspeakable emotions. Then she answers 
in a calm, even tone: 

“Oh, I reckon. I wonder which family the children will be like. 

I wonder if Irene thinks of that. For while God has redeemed Ed¬ 
ward the babes will be of another generation, and if their redemp¬ 
tion comes as slowly and at as great a price as that of their father, 

I hope to be in glory before they are born.” 

“Be ashamed, mother. Of course they will have their mother’s 
quality of soul and their father’s business ability. I believe you 
are insanely jealous, though I must say I never saw you so before.” 




FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


189 


“I hope so, father; I hope so,” was her answer, and while he was 
vaguely wondering what she “hoped so,” and if she referred to the 
children or to her jealousy, she opened the window and called, “Irene, 
come; father is ready to tell you all about it.” 

When Irene came she said: “I have only one request. That is, 
don’t get in a hurry. Let Edward prove himself before you move. 
For remember, child, when once you cross the marriage altar you 
can never turn back, and all the courts in all the lands, and even 
the great God himself, cannot make you a girl again. As for me, I 
am quite happy if you never marry, but should it prove to be for 
your own happiness I consent, and may God give you the very 
choicest blessings He sees are for your good, considering the man 
you marry. But Edward has so openly declared himself concerning 
you, that should you be reconciled you will be sure to marry. 
Father will tell you the rest,” and she left them alone, where they 
planned in detail what tests they would put, and when they would 
make themselves known, and all about it, and so we leave them to 
take a look at the bill. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE BILL. 

We will give this bill as Edward had it written, and not as it 
was when Jack put it in good legal form, all the change he made 
being in the legal phraseology, for to his surprise every phase of 
j which he and Peggy and Irene had thought was there, simple and 
j concise and plain. It ran as follows: 

“Whereas I, Edward Schilling, know both the schemes and the 





190 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


enls of the white slave traffic and the social evil, I do here and now 
rame a bill and pray God to help me see it made a law, whereby 
tins terrible child of hell may find its death. As this evil thrives 
on the ignorance of young boys and girls, and aims to so enmesh 
ln thair foohsh and reckless years that by the time they are 
wise enough to value purity they will think it too late, and any 

Tdo ask ° n ‘ y be thC Ske ’ et0n ° f What they mi « ht have been > 

Aiticle 1. That each state maintain a school and home in every 

city and county, however small or great, said school to be of suffi¬ 
cient size to cover the need of said city or county. This school shall 
be known as the ‘Young Woman’s Purity Association,’ or, for the 
male sex, as the ‘Young Men’s Purity Association,’ and shall be for 
the instructing of both boys and girls in the things of self and sex 

me e thoTs 8 u 0 sed h ^ “ d heredity ’ ^ in —es and 

, , y traffickers, both men and women, for the capture 

° . ° y ? an glris ’ and of the consequences to themselves and their 
posterity physical and moral. Also they shall be instructed as to 
the social degradation which follows such a life. 

“Article 2. These schools shall be in the hands of, and instruc¬ 
ts 611 by, men and women of high moral and Christian charac¬ 
ter, any person ever known or shQwn ^ have immoraI or 

temperate, or ever to have engaged in any business after which a 
question mark could be placed, shall not be eligible to hold any 
position in or be in any way connected with this school. 

be nut to a !i, l herS ShaI1 PaSS a 8tate b0ard examination and 

Ployed in ^ being P e ™ ittad to 

I yen tms school. When once so employed thev shall , * ■ 

their positions during a life of behavior consistent with the needs^f 

on y three'” TZ * “ fe ° f ™i'npeachable condue and 

only three causes shall remove them, namely: Permanent lo s o 





FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


191 


health, either of body or mind; feebleness attending age, or con¬ 
duct unbecoming one holding such a position. 

“Article 4. A removal must be brought about by a trial in open 
Circuit Court, which trial must be by jury, and each juror must 
meet every test required by a teacher. Each teacher must keep 
posted as to the things needful to properly instruct the pupils in the 
time present. Failure so to do must be held as one form of conduct 
unbecoming such a teacher, and will be followed by loss of position 
and a fine not to exceed $500.00, and if it be proven that such neglect 
I was wilful, or if at any time the imparting of such instructon is 
wilfully neglected the fine may be imposed, and the teacher must be 
imprisoned net less than six nor more than twelve months. 

“Article 5. The chief instructor, male or female, shall receive 
$3,000.00 per year, in addition to the use of a house free from rent, 
and $10.00 per week for groceries, which shall be paid by the govern¬ 
ment; also the expense of any travel or funds required for any 
investigation or instruction necessary to successfully conduct the 
work. Each principal shall be allowed enough assistants to conduct 
| the work, and these shall be determined by the number of pupils 
enrolled, each teacher to have charge of not to exceed 50 pupils at 
one lesson. Each helper shall receive $1,200.00 per year, and shall 
I be subject to the same rules and laws and entitled to the same 
i privileges as set forth in the case of the principal. 

“Article 6. The government shall erect buildings in every city or 
{ county ample for the accommodation of its population, and in these 
i buildings shall be housed the school; also an eating house and rooms 
sufficient for pupils who have no home in said city or county. Tickets 

I entitling the holder to twenty-one good wholesome meals at the gov¬ 
ernment eating house shall be issued to pupils of these schools, the 
sum of twenty-five cents to be charged for each 21-meal ticket. 
Each pupil who desires it shall be furnished with a room with bath 





192 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


privileges, use of the reading and rest rooms, piano or other musical 
instruments, use of gymnasium, or any other paraphernalia or ap¬ 
paratus which may pertain to the pupil’s grade in the school, and the 
sum of $1.00 per week shall be charged for this room and privileges. 

lie prices charged for meals and rooms shall be fixed without regard 
to the financial or social standing of any pupil, and no pupil shall be 
given any advantage of any other pupil on account of any difference 
in social or financial standing; neither shall the accommodations men¬ 
tioned herein be in any case accounted as charity. Any pupil who 
is not able to pay the aforementioned fees, however, shall be ex- 
ended credit for the amount required, and in such case such pupil 
shall be required to pay this money to the school out of his or her 
salary or wages after securing employment, such payment to be 
ma.de at the rate of at least one per cent, of such salary or wages 
until paid in full. Any person or persons desiring to conduct a room¬ 
ing or boarding house, or to furnish rooms or board to persons other 
than their own family, shall be subject to the rules and authority 
of this organization, and must undergo the same moral examination 
and investigation required of purity teachers. They shall report 

tTtlLTth t he 0ffl r. r ; ° f th!s OT S aniza «°n> and shall be amenable 
of viol f ° n ' V f lf at any tlme sudl P ersons are found guilty 

ceale t g “7 of this law they shall immediately 

cease to operate any such rooming or boarding house 7 \ 

Article 8. The law governing boarding and rooming houses and 

^:s^r ation thereof 9han app,y to - 

“Article 9. Any person under suspicion of violating any provision 



FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


193 


of this law must be reported to the head purity officer, who must 
use all the means in his or her power to ascertain the truth of such 
a report, and in case the investigation seems to warrant such a 
course, said purity officer is hereby authorized to arrest such per¬ 
son or persons on suspicion of violation of the spirit and letter of 
this law, and the burden of proof shall rest on the one so arrested, 
and should accused fail to prove himself innocent of the charge the 
fine of $500.00 must be imposed, and may be increased to $2,000.00, 
and the accused must be imprisoned for a term of one year, and no 
pardon or parole shall be given except on positive proof that the ac¬ 
cused was not guilty, and that the finding of the court was a mis¬ 
take, in which case the party so accused has no recourse for damage, 
but a certificate of honorable discharge and compensation for time 
and expense lost in trial, imprisonment and fine must be considered 
ample remuneration. 

“Article 10. Any officer or private citizen withholding or failing 
to report to the purity officer any violation of this law or any part 
thereof, shall receive punishment for the failure to report such 
breach of the law the same as if the transgression had been his or 
her own act. This shall apply to all persons, in whatever walk of 
life, and shall not excuse even nurses, doctors, ministers, floor 
walkers, foreladies and foremen, hotel clerks, chambermaids, bell¬ 
boys, butlers, cabdrivers, porters, bartenders, saloonkeepers, matrons, 
public and private; janitors, any persons frequenting public places 
to take collections for religious or charitable work, or any other per¬ 
sons, whether named herein or not, and any failure to take notice 
when they might have done so shall be counted and punished the 
same as if they had seen and failed to report. , 

“Article 11. Any one under suspicion of housing or holding or 
entertaining any person for immoral purposes, by subterfuge, or by 
force or by guile, or to increase their own resources financially or 





194 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


otherwise, shall be punished by the highest punishment named in 
this law. Any one influencing or inducing or in any way causing 
any person or persons, directly or indirectly, to enter such a life, 
or conduct such a house, or in any way contributing to such a state’ 
of affairs, or failing to report knowledge of such doings, shall stand 
guilty and be dealt with as above named. 

“Article 12. Any person or persons, male or female, attempting 
to hold office or employment in any public place, or traveling or 
attempting to travel or remove from one township to another with- 
out a certificate from the Purity Association, shall be arrested and 
fined not less than $2,500.00, nor more than $10,000.00, and impris¬ 
oned not less than six nor more than twenty-four months. If the 
party so attempting to travel or remove is unmarried, then the 
parent or parents of such person shall stand equally guilty with the 
offender, and shall receive the same punishment. Any person, firm 
or corporation employing any person, or any common carrier or agent 
thereof permitting any person unaccompanied by his or her parents 
to travel on any train, steamboat, street car, bus, cab, or other means 
of public conveyance, without such person having such certificate, 
shall be equally guilty with such person, and each member of such 
firm or corporation, shall receive the same punishment as the one 
seeking tp be employed or attempting to travel without said cer¬ 
tificate. Should the party employed or traveling be married, then 
the case and punishment of the person, firm or corporation shall be 
the same as in the case of a single person, but the companion of the 
one so employed shall suffer like sentence with the husband or wife 
unless positive proof is given that the breach was against his or 
her will. Having reported the same to the proper officer at the time 
the violation was committed shall be considered direct evidence. All 
o er evidence will be treated as circumstantial, and taken or re¬ 
jected according to the rules governing such evidence. In case of 



FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


195 


children in such a home, they shall, on the imprisonment of the pa¬ 
rents, be taken in charge by the government, and cared for until 
such time as the parent shows a disposition worthy of being again 
in charge of them. If in reasonable time the parent fails to show 
such a disposition, then the proper authorities shall find them proper 
homes and any person or persons other than the ones so adopting 
them who hints, tells, or in any way imparts information to them 
at any time to cause a spirit of discontent or restlessness, intended 
to influence them to long or seek after the blood parent shall be pun¬ 
ished by the severest penalty named in this law, but at any time the 
foster parent has perfect liberty to turn them back to the blood 
parent by the consent of the head purity officer of their locality, or 
to tell them of the real parent in a kind, loving way, but should such 
foster parent twit or taunt them of their parentage in a way liable 
to injure their morals, he or she shall be guilty of contributing to 
delinquency, and punished accordingly. 

“Article 13. The government shall furnish room and board and 
aaccompanying privileges to all persons desiring the same during 
their term of school attendance in the school of purity, preparatory 
to seeking employment in the city, and shall have supervision of 
• them and help them obtain employment. 

“Article 14. Every purity officer, and every person employed in 
places public or private, must wear in plain view a little badge, 
|i made by the government officials in the U. S. Mint, consisting of a 
il mother-of-pearl lily with the word “Purity” inlaid in its heart. 

! The wearer shall pay $1.50 for the badge, and in case he or she does 
not have the price, shall pay the government for it from the first 
salary he or she draws. Any one, male or female, found employed 
and not wearing this badge, must be arrested and fined at least 
$5.00, and the head of the department in which the offender works 
shall receive the same punishment, and after the third offense the 




196 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


persons so offending shall be suspended from public service for six 
months, and after the third six months shall for each offense serve 
six months in the workhouse. 

“Article 15. These badges can only be obtained from the head 
purity officer, and then only accompanying a certificate of eligi¬ 
bility for service. Any person except the properly constituted au¬ 
thority manufacturing, handling, selling or giving away these 
badges shall be held guilty the same as if they had counterfeited 
money, and punished accordingly. The badges shall fasten with a 
lock pin, so as to insure against loss. In case of loss, the loser shall 
report immediately to the foreman, or when possible, directly to the 
purity officers, and any one finding such pin and not reporting and 
delivering the same to the purity officer shall be guilty and punish¬ 
able the same as if he or she had manufactured and sold the same. 

“Article 16. Whereas, many contend there must be lust centers, 
but to segregate them, the government shall build and maintain a 
red light” district, which shall be walled and guarded after the 
manner of a prison, with a small farm enclosed, one for men and 
another for women. All women desiring to lead a life of prostitu¬ 
tion shall be housed in the women’s harem, in charge of a suffi¬ 
cient number of purity officers to care for and control them, same 
as for a prison. The inmates shall have plenty of the plainest of 
food and clothing, and their heads shall be kept shaved smooth. 
They shall be required to at least one day in the week put in ten 
hours of hard labor, scrubbing, washing window's, sweeping and 
dusting the various public purity buildings, and in such public 
government service as they can perform under the guard of a purity 
matron with full police powers. In the intervals they shall help 
around the farm, with such duties as are necessary to raising as 
much of their food as the farm is able to produce. On Sunday they 
must attend chapel, and behave in the outward life as becomes the 




FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


197 


most faithful Christian. Any orthodox minister who will volun¬ 
teer may, by the wish and approval of the purity matron, preach 
and conduct religious services, and give full opportunity for them to 
seek Christ at any and all services. 

“Article 17. The men shall be housed and handled, fed and 
clothed, shaved and controlled same as the women of that class, ex¬ 
cept that they shall be under purity officers of their own sex, and 
they, in addition to caring for their farm, and cleaning the public 
government purity buildings for men, shall perforin all street clean¬ 
ing, paving and repairing of wornout pavement, and general public 
works now performed by the government, city, state or national, the 
pay to revert to the government to maintain the expense entailed 
by this law. Their Sabbaths shall be spent after the letter of law 
laid down for the women of their own stripe. Any man found 
guilty of attempting to illicitly mingle with any woman shall be 
unsexed and placed in the men’s specimen house, subject to all its 
laws and rules and regulations. Any woman yielding to such solici¬ 
tation shall be unsexed and become an inmate of and common serv¬ 
ant in the women’s specimen house, subject to all its laws and regu- 
1 lations. 

“Article 18. Specimen houses shall consist of buildings built by 
the government and under the jurisdiction and control of the purity 
‘ association for all persons who have defiled themselves in a sexual 
I way after the passing of this law, and for the housing and caring for 
I those broken in body and mind or either, from dissipation of any 
sort, previous to the passing of this law, who are unable, mentally 
or financially, to be self-supporting and to care for their bodily 
needs. The place shall consist of a farm and buildings equal to the 
needs, and shall be cared for and controlled in the same manner as 
the harems. The daily routine of life as pertains to labor and cloth¬ 
ing shall be the same as that prescribed for those in the harem 



198 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


houses, except that the hair be allowed to grow, in order that the 
effects of dissipation may be shown as affecting the growth of 
glossy, well-set hair, and instead of working on the streets and in 
all the public buildings, their labors will close with the work on their 
own farm, and they shall spend a portion of each weekday sittin® 
in state for the benefit of the students in the purity schools, with a 
printed placard hanging on the wall at their backs giving in detail 
the full history of their case and condition, with all the attending 
facts and the probable future of their case. Any one scarred or dis- 

gured must submit to being viewed by these students. A good 
physician of their own sex, and a member of the purity association 
must have charge of this branch of the work. No male can be per¬ 
mitted to see the females, and vice versa, but thorough knowledge 
of conditions in the specimen houses and their attendant results 
along with a knowledge of the causes, shall constitute part of the 
education necessary to taking public service. Any time specimens 
are lacking in the specimen house, or any time a case in the harem 
warrants the investigation for the benefit and instruction of the 
students the teacher has full right and authority to order any or 
all inmates of their own sex from the harem to the specimen house, 
and they must respond and be examined. 

“Article 19. Unsexing. Any man found guilty of trying to in- 

of thil Lw C or S iD) ^ fCmaIe t0 bfeak any 8 P Wt » ^er 
of this law or m any way causing one to enter or become a subject 

jected trairthe^lT ° r ShaU b<5 UnSeXed and Sub ' 

jected to all the life prescribed for the men in the harem house 

Any woman guilty of the same demeanor or attempting such a thing 
shall receive like punishment. S g> 

“Article 20 Registry System. At every harem or specimen 
house shall be kept not only a full record in his or her owl name 
but the complete history of every inmate, and their life, after the 




FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


190 


manner of the record kept by the Metropolitan police at the present 
time, except that no one he allowed to assume any name but his or 
her family name, and that the record he public, and any one known 
to have been lewd prior to the passing of this law must be recorded 
there, and their full history given, and on moving from one place to 
another must be transferred by the purity officer, whose duty it 
shall be to send their record to the officer nearest their abode. All 
records shall be public, and any one, male or female, contemplating 
marriage may go to these records and see what, if any, record their 
intended companion has on the line of a lack of chastity. An ab¬ 
sence of the name from these records shall constitute proof of an un¬ 
questioned life. For public convenience these records shall be alpha¬ 
betically arranged. 

“Article 21. Each county in which there is no city shall main¬ 
tain at its county seat a local branch of the Purity Association for 
the furthering of and the enforcing of all the tenets of this law as 
applies to all possible needs of their county, both in the towns and 
villages, and in hamlets and farming districts. A county containing 
a city shall be cared for by its Purity Association. This whole law 
shall be in force, both as to rewards and punishment, whether in 
city, town, village, hamlet or country, and any one found guilty of 
trying to evade or in any way hinder the keeping of either the spirit 
or letter of this law or the proper punishment for the breaking of 
the spirit or letter of the same, shall stand guilty of the 
crime so shielded, though otherwise innocent, and shall be punished 
accordingly. If guilty of the actual crime and found guilty of try¬ 
ing to evade the law by any subterfuge, whatever penalty this law 
has provided shall be made double, but should the guilty party make 
a full confession, he then shall receive only the punishment pre¬ 
scribed by the article governing the crime committed. 

“Article 22. All moneys received for fines, or what would other- 



200 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


wise constitute the wages of the people in the toils of the law shall 
belong to the government and shall constitute a special fund for the 
furthering and maintaining of this law and its financial require¬ 
ments. Furthermore, all persons found guilty of violating the whole 
or part of this law, in addition to having confiscated any wages for 
public service they may perform as before provided, must, from their 
own private income, pay to the government 10% of all money com¬ 
ing to them individually from their estate, and at their death the 
government shall, regardless of the family opinion, become an heir 
and inherit from the estate equally with the other heirs. Also 
whije they are in the toils of this law, the government shall have 
equal voice with the family or business partners, in the conduct and 
handling of any business, property or money that the one so suffer¬ 
ing may possess or be connected with, and the government shall 
look to the interest of the ones so in bondage, and see that their 
opportunities are not hampered by malicious persons trying to cause 
them to be imprisoned that they may cheat them out of property, 
and the laws governing and protecting the intersts of a minor heir 
s rail stand to protect a party possessing property and financial in¬ 
terests, only that this law’s highest penalty shall be meted out to 
any one found guilty of trying to take advantage of any person 
whose liberty is hampered because of the violation of this law Such 
parties, on being set at liberty, shall again assume control of what¬ 
ever interests they had at the time of their imprisonment; also of 
the accumulation under the control of the government during their 
absence, but must for the remainder of their lives pay the 10% 
punty tax in addition to their other taxes on all their inter- 
ests that are taxable, or that may become taxable. All this money 
shall be for the maintaining and furthering of the purity associa- 

“Article 23. The financial side of the Purity Association shall be 





FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


201 


handled after the manner of the public school fund, with whatever 
modification is necessary to conform to the rules laid down in this 
law, and anything that would bar an individual from being a purity 
teacher must bar him from trusteeship. The trustees shall be elected 
every four years by public election, and each county shall have three. 
Their duties shall correspond with that of township trustees for the 
public schools. 

“Article 24. An innocent wife or wife and children in need be¬ 
cause of the guilt of the husband and father are entitled to food, 
clothing and quarters in the purity lodging house until the husband 
and father is again free and in shape to care for them, and they may 
at stated times visit him and seek to encourage him to a better life.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


THE PASSING OF THE BILL AS AN AMENDMENT. 

To tell of all the weary toil to which Jack Harsh and Edward 
Schilling put themselves that the Schilling Purity Bill might be¬ 
come a part of our U. S. Constitution would be too voluminous, but 
in brief Jack was elected the new member from the Seventh Indiana 
Congressional District after a hard fight from the foes of purity. 
Edward Schilling spent thousands of his own dollars in making 
political speeches over the district to secure his election, and suc¬ 
ceeded. Furthermore, he built and equipped at his own expense a 
home for the Purity Association of Indianapolis, to be operated at 
his expense for the years in which the government was deciding the 
fate of the bill. No one was allowed to work in the Schilling stores 
and many other large concerns who did not have the certificate of 



202 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


competency for which the bill provides. This was done to prove its 
practicability, and strange as it may seem to you it greatly grew in 
popularity, because those persons employing help so equipped found 
that they gave more reliable and intelligent service, and that back 
of their efforts lay a dignity that help lacking such training could in 
no wise affect, and the special training given along the line of the 
business they proposed to follow made them amply able to hold and 

PurTtt a . d ®- Conse q uei >«y houses employing help from the 

Purity Association always did more and better business, and of course 
their profits were greater, and the Schillings, instead of being im¬ 
poverished by Edward’s bold efforts in behalf of purity, found their 
trade increasing until it became necessary not only to enlarge their 
store in Indianapolis, but also to establish stores in goodly numbers 
not only in America but across the waters, and the name Schilling 
became almost a household word on two continents, and it was com¬ 
mon to hear said, “If it’s from Shillings it is the best.” InstrucZn 
was given to prospective employes while the purity building was in 
process of construction, but now it is finished and it is to be dedi- 
cated, and a great time is expected. 

Edward has traveled so much and spoken so plainly on the sub- 
ect of the ‘‘White Slave Traffic,” his search for Irene had been so 

andTrfai th t th W ° rId ’ 3 inter6St “ her bein « found was 80 general 
d great that the prospects of a crowd at the dedication were great 

noticf thZ th b Whe " the PaperS Came ° Ut with the doubIe cofumn 
notice that the. money collected ($1.00 and $2.00 per seat) would hp 

used to further the work up till the time when the goverlent 

should step m and shoulder the financial responsibility, and that th! 

Schillings would not use for themselves one cent of the fu„l“ut 

ave them in trust till then, and use them in broadening the work 

and then on account of Edward’s past and his connection with Marie 

Jones and Irene Raymond was given as briefly as truth would permit, 




FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


203 


then his conversion and how it came about, then his world-wide but 
fruitless search for Irene, and last but not least, the fact that Irene 
is now and has been living in Indianapolis with her parents since the 
day she left the home of Mrs. Grass, and that she will be at the 
dedication and sing a solo with a chorus of 300 voices, a piece in¬ 
spired by the experiences she had been through, and of her own com¬ 
position, this last being signed by Jack Harsh—what a furore it all 
made. Flow it was taken up and copied by different papers, and 
what a selling of seats, until all were taken, and so many requests 
for more that the program was to be produced the third time, and 
the seats were all sold, and still requests came in, and as the great 
hall of the Purity Building was so constructed that by using all the 
openings it would seat 25,000 people, and as only 5,000 of these seats 
were of the $1.00 class, you can readily see what the income was. 
The best speakers from London, Paris, New York, San Francisco, 
Chicago, and various places were on the list, and this cost some 
money, but still a neat sum was on hand as a fund in trust. 

If Jack Harsh had been a man of the least show of weakness, 
surely the peaceful home of the Thomas Henry (Raymonds) would 
have been like bedlam long before the day of dedication, but before 
he gave his statement to the press, he and Edward had framed his 
answer to all. The day that Jack broke the news to Edward they 
were together in Jack’s office planning the details of the dedication, 
' who and what the speakers and singers should be, when Jack wheeled 
his office chair around facing Edward and grasping him by the 
shoulder swung him around until they looked eye to eye, Edward in 
astonishment and Jack searchingly. 

"Well, Jack!” said Edward. 

In his earnest, aggressive manner, Jack said: "Old man, you 
surely have done penance if any one on earth ever did, and if a 
deep-dyed sinner ever ‘brought forth fruit meet for repentance,’ you 



204 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


are the chap, and today Irene Raymond told Peggy that if you 
wished it she would sing at the dedication, if it could in any way be 
a help to push the work along. She has a song of her own composi¬ 
tion. It is a solo and chorus. She asked Peggy to sing for the prac¬ 
ticing. You know their voices are strangely alike, and she says she 
don’t want to appear herself until the hour. Then there will be so 
many things for the folks to see they will not think much about her, 
and after the song she can quietly slip away and avoid the notoriety! 
Of course you and I have our own opinions as to how that will be. 
In fact, I look for it to be a great means of success.” 

Gently Jack held him by the shoulders, for Edward was trembling 
like a leaf, and not seeming to hear what Jack had said about the 
song, he said in an awed whisper: 

“Oh, Jack! Don’t tell me she is here if it is hot true!” 

But, my dear sir, it is really true.” 

In the same voice—“Is she all right’” 

“Yes.” 


“How long has she been here?” 

Since the day she went from the home of Mrs. Grass.” 

“Is she angry with me ?” 

“I don’t believe she is now.” 

“Do you think I dare hope ?” 

“Provided you continue faithful. Till lately she would not hear 
to you being told, or to going where you could see her. I’ve been 
bursting to tell.you this long time, but did not dare. Now she 
offered of her own accord to come where she knew she must see you.” 
Do you think I can go and see her now, or must I wait ’” 
"Peggy will find out and tell me, and I will let you know. But 
what do you say to her singing at the dedication?” 

told I m win be ,f d “ she does ’ but really 1 don,t know i ust wha * y»“ 
told me a while ago, except that she is all right.” 



i 










Edward Schilling. 









FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


207 


Jack repeated to him the story of the solo and chorus entitled 
“Life’s Whisperings.” Edward was wild to hear it, also to see Irene. 
He dreamed of her now, by day and by night, not as in some ter¬ 
rible trouble, but as he last saw her when in health, and when they 
were on good terms. At times that day at the home of Mrs. Grass 
would intrude itself, and he would see Iier as she lay apparently life¬ 
less, and then sick, and he would be almost hysterical from the re¬ 
membrance, then hope would kindle again and he would work and 
dream on, for his pleading for an interview was always answered by 
the firm but direct message, “You must wait.” 

Now the day of dedication is at hand, and such crowds as throng 
the town! The old clock says “twelve—one—two”—and three is the 
hour for the services to begin. The hall is packed, and the stage 
is full of speakers and singers, save one empty chair, kept for Irene. 
Every one is curious, and even the calm Jack Harsh feels a thrill of 
excitement hitherto unknown to him, for he loves Edward now like a 
brother, and deep in his heart he fears that after all Irene will turn 
him down, and he has told Peggy again and again that “if she does 
you’ll see it will just kill him, and I think he has proven himself 
worthy of her or any one, Why,” says Jack, “he has been sick for 
months from his alarm for her, and since he knows she is all right 
he has been in a burning fever of fear lest she hates him. I do hope, 
dear, that you will do your best to have her be kind to him, at least.” 

He talked to Peggy on this wise for the last of a multitude of 
times just as they entered the hall of the Purity building. Again 
and again every eye is drawn irresistibly to the vacant chair which 
stood just in front of the chairs occupied by the Harshes. 

The great orchestra led off the program with “America,” and 
the Rev. Mr. Cromwell, as he rose to offer the opening prayer, 
lifted his hands in benediction and said, “Let the congregation rise 
and sing that song prayerfully to the accompaniment of the orchestra, 



208 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


and may our God grant us freedom from this terrible sin that is so 
surely sapping the life from what ought to be our noble manhood 
and womanhood, and destroying the peace and prosperity of so many 
homes.” 


What a song! It seemed that the music floated out and away 
25,000 strong and was re-inforced by the voices on the stage. Surely 
some note must catch the ear and heart of God to bear fruit an hun¬ 
dred fold. The prayer was brief, earnest and pointed. It left all 
hearts ready for the truth. The speakers and singers followed each 
other in their order, and still the vacant chair. Edward looked at 
Jack appealingly, the crowd looked at him accusingly, and he felt 
much like a boy caught in a falsehood lying across a chair waiting 
for the thud—thud—of mother’s slipper. Now it comes Edward’s 
turn to speak for the work and the building. Next in turn is the 
solo and chorus. As Edward speaks his heart warms to his subject, 
and he forgets for a moment his anxiety to see Irene. We give an 
extract from his speech: 

“I thank God, men, not you or myself, that I am free from the 
terrible bondage of a life of lust. No restraining arm was thrown 
about me to keep me until the day when I should have sense enough 
to restrain myself. I need not name the consequences. You know 
them all too well, to my shame, and it ought to be yours as well 
I do not care so much that you have contributed to this fund today 
although I thank you for that fact, but I do pray you, lend your 
voice, heart, influence and prayer to this cause until some law be 
enacted that shall stem the tide of this terrible evil and make the 
path that boy or girl of yours must tread a safe and sane one.” (A 
™ St !f skirts ’ a murmur from the crowd, and the vacant chair is 
ed) Unconscious of the fact he goes on, saying: “Make a stricter 
law than the Schilling Bill if it seems good to you, but do not 
weaken it, for the sake of the boy and girl, for, as you know, lust 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


209 


deadens the conscience and cripples the soul. For instance, I know 
I am a child of God, and am sorry for all my sin—very sorry, sin¬ 
cerely so, and I know I am unworthy to be the husband of the woman 
I love. Some time, somewhere down the aisles of time, probably 
when the lamps of life are burning low, and when liie demands peace 
and satisfaction that can come to a woman only through the choice 
of a man who is her equal in every way, knowing I can never be 
that, I know I shall then meet her gaze and read in her eyes the tale 
of a broken heart, and see there written the awful accusation, ‘You 
did it, sir, and for what ? and why?’ Knowing all this, I say, I still 
intend to strive with all my might to make her my wife. I know I 
will be happy in her love. I know as surely she will not always be 
happy in mine, and that many times she will wonder if it had not 
been better she had dismissed me, and I am sorry, but not nearly so 
sorry as if I were she and she were I, and I can’t tell you the joy I 
feel to hear my friend Harsh say she is safe and sound, and has been 
so all along, and though her courage should fail her to appear today, 
you may depend on his word that she lives and is true. I see a 
strange look pass over the countenances of most of you. ’ (They 
were surprised that he had not discovered Irenes presence). I in¬ 
terpret it to mean, ‘Sir, if you know your unworthiness, and see now 
that, true as you may be, you must still cause her heart to ache, 
why do you still try to win her as wife? Why not leave her for 
some man who is her equal?’ As sane to ask the ragweed why it 
dares grow beside the lily. The old gardener says, as you admire 
the beauty and fragrance of the lily, ‘Oh, yes, it is very good, but I 
had expected so much from that lily. It was of the choicest variety, 
the bulb was of the best, and the soil especially prepared, and it had 
an excellent start, but when I thought it past danger I went away 
for a short while, and when I came back that ragweed grew beside 
it, and on examination I found their roots so singularly entwined 





210 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


that I dared not disturb the ragweed lest I destroy the lily I’ve 
nourished it and eared for it all I could, and as you say, it is a beauty, 
yet it is so far short of what it might have been, simply because it 
has to help furnish strength for that miserable ragweed.’ Now your 
faces say to me, ‘Sir, since you see all that, how dare you link your 
life to hers ’ I answer the challenge thus: ‘How dared you, who 
were older than , and knew more of life’s ways, leave the path of 
my boyhood beset by a system that made me what I was, and made 
it impossible for me to now rise to the fullness of God’s plan for me- 
and why do you oppose this bill, which would give your boy a chance 

r0 ;zr: e ; ^ n0 . wn? And are y0U worthy of the lo ™ the woman 
you cal wife bestows upon you, and liow many of the ills of your 

own child could a skilled M. D. trace to your door?’ While you re- 

c°ver enough to answer, I will search out and pluck the lily I so 

much desire. What gratitude I would feel for you had you built 

wortl v“buf a hed , S ; Ulat W ° U,d ha ™ -<le - 

worthy but you would not.” And so he went on, to the end and 

d0W “ his chair occupied by thi Eev. Mr Crom 

1. In his moment of confusion Jack spoKe to him in a low tone 

saying, “Here, Edward; sit here.” Obediently he dropped i.L7he 

proffered chair, strangely confused because, as he thought they were 

all craning their necks at him. Somehow he felt like a’ 5 t 

whose clothing ail the buttons had dropped while in the banquet ha” 

the * T7l! mq T 01 dt Wha ‘ WaS the “ atter he looked kdo 

s“E--fiawa s 

ene, womanlike, gave a quick move of her right hand and at the 
Ttoo pTalnly, 0 ’“‘and on^lTIZ ““ 

“hap g p h “d and 80 natUrally that knew what 



FRESH FROM THE BARREN'S 


211 


In commenting on it afterward many said: “Oh, it is plain to me 
he had seen her before. Why, after all he had gone through to find 
her, do you think the presence of the crowd could have caused him 
to stop at just an impulsive hand-shake?’ 

But many saw and understood just how it was, and pitied the 
outstretched arms that were turned away empty and rewarded only 
by a quieting hand-clasp, and wished that the curtain might have 
dropped for a moment on the man with the throbbing temples and 
the maiden of self-control. 

Irene arose and in a simple, unaffected manner sang the solo. 
Clearly each word burned into the minds of the hearers. The words 
were simple, and yet so terribly true. The chorus followed in a 
gentle murmur that amounted to and gave the effect of a whisper 
song. Thus she sang: 

LIFE’S WHISPERINGS. 

Have you stood on the shore by the river of time 
And watched the waters run? 

Some clear as crystal, some black with grime, 

A type of how life’s deeds are done. 

A resistless story forever they tell 
Of what has poured into the flood— 

Kind and merciful deeds, or the pitfalls of hell, 

Whisper back like the judgments of God. 

Chorus— 

How they whisper back to us, 

When the day is done; 

All our thoughts and deeds and sayings, 

All that we have known; 





212 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


Undenied they whisper to us, 
When life’s day is done; 
Whisper, whisper back to us, 
When the day is done. 


All the waiter that fell from the fountain so free, 

Was clear, for a crystal flood. 

Like the smile of a babe on its mother’s knee, 

Before sin’s path it had trod. 

But the earth pours, her filth in the heart of the stream, 
Polluting the water so bright, 

And the world puts its stamp on the life of the child, 
Destroying its beauty and light. 

The stream moves along to the heart of the sea; 

Buried there it is cleansed from all grime. 

Its waters, now dancing, now bubbling, now free, 

Live in joy a pure life that’s sublime. 

There s an Ocean of Love, in a Heart of Pure Gold, 
Living Water, for your life and mine, 

Sink your soul in its depths, your life it will mold, 
Radiantly peaceful, successful, divine. 


The encore was answered by the chorus, but Miss Raymond di<3 
not respond, and was nowhere to be found about the building, which 
was dedicated, and the two extra renditions of the program given 
at both of which Irene sang, and somehow made her escape without 
facing either Edward or the curious crowd in a private interview. 

Edward’s disappointment knew no bounds, but his 2 eal for the 
cause of purity never for one moment abated, and his nearest hour 
of forgetfulness of lost hope was when he was working manfully 


FEESH FROM THE BARRENS 


213 


for the bill. Many things he suffered—even his life was often in 
jeopardy from the enemies of purity, but finally it is passed and is a 
national law, and the cause of God stands sure and strong in our 
America. 

Edward, now the firm supporter of the cause of purity, but un¬ 
able to hold office in the Association because of ^>ast disdeeds, turns 
back to business, saying, “This is much better, sirs, for you see my 
life is a scarred one, and only the life free from blemishes is fit to 
stand at the head of that cause. I can and will help, God willing, in 
many ways, but as a servant and not a leader.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


APOLOGY, FORGIVENESS, RECONCILIATION. 

Now a great anniversary celebration is to be held in Indianapolis 
in the purity building, and it is to be a national affair, held here 
because this is the birthplace of the Purity Association, and it seems 
to be destined to outdo the dedication service, but now the seats are 
free, and a glorious time is predicted. 

As Jack and Edward finish their day’s work of preparation for 
the exercises. Jack says, “Come home with me, old man, and spend the 
evening. We may not have much of a dinner, but Irene is coming 
over.” 

“Did she say for me to come, Jack?” 

“No, but I did, and I have been watching your interests there 
like any lawyer would do for a true friend, and I say come.” 

“Thank you, Jack; I come, and may God reward your kindness.” 

Off they go to the home of the Harshes. The two children are 



214 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


out paying, and little Henry comes to meet them, leading toddling 

, y . y - hl r Slde ’ f0r y0U can Scarce sa y she walks, so slow and 
todd mg ,s her gait, and no wonder-she is less than one year old 

favver “fITm”” 0 t0 meCt them and cla!m a kiss *»m 

takes ihe hah 7 “ faVV6r ’” SayS Hen ^ aad aa ^ 

VeZz:: y r B and Henry by the hand and p^ 

„„Jr k ' y0Ur / i8 an ideaI home - A good man, a good woman a 

Guard 7* ii" d 7° u° tS ' G ° d C ° Uld g ‘ Ve no man a more ‘deal lot 

that l broken^ d “ *"* bWak “ its When once 

sprh,7at the « r / P<i r mUSt alWayS lurk there - ready to 

P mg at the first opportunity, and now to come to your house is 

"tr ir,g ° Ut ° f the bla <*-‘ into the most^adiant sum 
f'Tr y “ U ’ EdWard - You know tke web that is often woven 

i ,x “ t ,u "‘ 

the same.” 7 ° gy * h h ° Ie business > and I am to her 

brigM that “ W ’“ y y ° Ur h ° me i8 80 ba PPy a «d your children 


SO 


-ck^^r^^r and on ° ut *° the kitch - 

they are met at the dining-room door TyVegJ^I rtnf’ ” 

shakeifcXomVLS d ^: lc :“^ir: f f ward a r m tand - 

mtle home. Meet mL Eaylnd Mr S^ll 7 T* **»’ *° ° Ur 

rard^^rantaVrsfm” ^ ^ W.‘ 

istence, grasped Jack s ar “ sTytr CTatl *° f ° rget ^ 
and I have something to show you,”’and the HatsheTTake^an esit 





FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


215 


for the back yard, where a bit of time is consumed in showing 
lather all the newly blooming flowers. 

Let you and I remain and we will see quite a change in the pic¬ 
ture from the last time this man and maiden stood alone in an ele¬ 
gantly furnished room. For a moment both are silent, then Edward 
speaks, as he clings to the limp, cold hand: “Miss Raymond, I 
have forfeited the right to call you the name my heart speaks. Can 
you ever forgive me the wrong I have done you, and should you now 
feel you can not, may I ask you, won’t you please try? I have no 
words with which to express the regret I feel for all my past mis¬ 
deeds, and especially toward you and Marie Jones. Neither could I 
frame any excuse for one of them. I do thank God that you still 
live. I am sorry she died, and more sorry for what she suffered 
while she lived, and that I ever had part in such crime as indi¬ 
rectly trafficking in womanhood. While I never received one penny 
for any woman’s shame, I, as you know, when tired of them, was 
the cause of many poor girls falling into the hands of the traffickers, 
also that slimy cur, the 'ringer/ whose business it is to see that any 
girl who can be induced to express a desire to get away is whipped 
and so ill-treated that she soon, from sheer fear, will not admit she 
is ^ not perpetually happy in her life of shame, lest she be talking to 
a hunger,’ and will be subjected to cursing, beating and starving; and 
! now, as I look into your eyes and recount my crimes, and see myself 
j beside you, whose every line of form and face speak of a pure life, 

I see myself more hideous than ever before,- and yet my love for you 
almost consumes my soul. If I read aright your silent coldness, it 
means that for me your love is dead, but let me ask, will you not 
let me try to win you back?” 

As Irene cleared her throat to speak he became panic-stricken, 

1 and grasping her firmly around the waist and placing his hand over 
her mouth, he almost wailed: 





216 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


“Don’t say no, Irene; don’t say no. My God, I will die right here 
if you have no word of hope for me. Look in my eyes if you think 
I am only fooling. I am in earnest, child. I know all I have made 
you suffer, as near as a dog can understand the feelings of a dove, 
but after all, Irene, Christ died for me, too, and He has forgiven me. 
I will try so hard to make you happy. Won’t you let my try? I 
did not mean to take you in my arms like this, but I thought your 
red lips framed a ‘no,’ and I can’t stand it, my girl. Just please let 
me try. I am ready for you any moment, and yet will give you all 
the time you ask if at the very last, as my life goes out, you will 
but smooth my pillow and let me say ‘good-by, my little wife. 
Meet your foolish husband in heaven.’ ” 

Thus he talked, more earnestly than we can write, but holding 
her firmly with one arm and his other hand over her mouth so she 
could not reject him. Finally he said, after he had plead until he 
felt the resistance go out of her form and felt her rest in the arm 
that held her: 

Now, darling, I am going to take just one kiss from your pout¬ 
ing red lips, then I will put my ear to them and listen, after I 
quote the words, ‘Blessed are the merciful,’ and oh, if I could only 
hear you say, There is hope for you with me, Edward,’ or if you 
don’t feel like saying it, if you give the consent of silence, then I 
will know you mean to let me try, and I count you as my own, my 
darling wife.” 

A long time did he listen, but no sound did he hear, except a 
catch in her breath as though she would speak, and then silence. 

Finally he said, “I thank you, my dear, for giving me a chance. 
What a firm little wife I will have, almost stubborn, but that is 
good for me. Oh, I am the happiest man on this earth. I expect 
you will almost pray for me to die. I want to marry you so bad I 
just can t wait a minute longer than you compel me to. I hope I 


>» 








































































. 

' 

* 


















. 







































































A 























FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


219 


can make you happy, dear, like Jack does Peggy. If I fail you must 
tell me of my faults, and remember I am trying and want to be 
just what you want me to be. Here comes Jack. No, you don’t 
get loose till I tell them. In fact, I don’t feel like ever letting you 
loose again, now that I have my hands on you. Jack, old man, give 
us your blessing. Irene and I are soon going to marry. Peggy, I 
thank you for helping me to get hold of this little girl of mine.” * 
“Come, Peggy,” says Jack, “let us bestow our blessing,” and so 
they stepped to where Edward stood holding Irene in his arms with 
a grip like grim death, and four Harsh, but undefiled hands, rested 
on the heads of Edward and Irene, four heads bowed, and four 
hearts lifted to the Heavenly Father, and the voice of one, Jack 
Harsh, spoke aloud to Him thus: 


Dear Father, Thou who knowest the inmost secrets and motives 


of us all, and whose chief work is to deal out mercy, be merciful to 
us all. Help this son of thine to make good to thy glory, in his busi¬ 
ness among men, in his life in society, in his life as husband and 
father, in his attitude toward his home, and everywhere he may go 
or be, make him a blessing to the world. Keep him ever by thy 
power, all thine own, and give him always wisdom according to his 
hour of need, and prosper him to thy glory. And this, his intended 
wife; keep her ever all she ought to be; help, protect and bless her 
even as we have asked for him. Bind them together in thee, and 
hedge them and theirs about for thyself ever and always, through 
time and eternity, in Christ’s name.” Four voices said reverently 
and earnestly, “Amen.” 

And so the suspense of months is broken, and they spend a glad, 
happy evening together, singing and playing and listening to the 
children’s prattle. 

Edward finally said: “Well, am I to have the joy of taking you 
home to Mother Raymond, Irene, and there asking forgiveness and 




220 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


the privilege of sonship? Do you folks realize that I do not yet 
know where Irene lives and has hid all these weary years from me 
and the shrewdest sleuths? I am anxious to see.” 

Now little Henry answers. Climbing on Irene’s lap and putting 
both chubby arms about her neck, he says: “No, you can’t take 
my Auntie Irene out in the dark. Her muvver don’t want you to. 
You go in the dark yourself and ask her, and maybe she make you 
run real fast away, but Aunty Irene she tell me she stay tonight, 
and when she say ‘I will,’ she always do—so there.” 

They all laughed at the philosophizing of the child, but into Ed¬ 
ward’s heart crept a great fear lest Mrs. Raymond would, as the 
child said, “make him run real fast” out into the blackest night, and 
now he felt he would die were he to lose Irene. So he said: “Well, 
sonny, you have scared me out. I would be afraid to see my in¬ 
tended mother-in-law now, and at this hour. Can I come and go with 
you, Irene, in the morning to ask your parents to give you to me ?” 

“Well, you had better just go to the house. I will go home about 
9 in the morning. We are known as the Henrys in the neighbor¬ 
hood, and live at -.” 

“Then if I come at 9:30 you will be there. I feel real scared up. 
I could not blame your mother if she killed me at sight, and I 
would rather she did than to refuse' me her daughter. Oh, God! 
What a pity young folks could not realize that when they do 
wrong they, as well as those they wrong, must suffer, and suffer 
worse than death at that. The reason I am so scared is that I 
know I am unworthy of you, and that your mother probably knows 
it better than I do myself.” 

Peggy stops this soliloquy by saying, “Might I make a sugges¬ 
tion?” 

All in chorus answer heartily, “Yes.” 

Well, it is like this. All that has been would seem to me to 




FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


221 


make a long courtship between you folks incongruous. So why 
I could you not be publicly married at the anniversary? The public 
has been very much interested in helping in the search for Irene, and 
in their foregiveness of you, Edward, they have shown themselves 
more than kind, and in passing the Purity Bill with so large a ma¬ 
jority, and in the great number of names signed to the petitions 
sent into Congress to ask for the passing of the bill as a whole and 
unmodified, all this, I think, entitles the public who are gathering 
to rejoice in this the first purity building, to witness the marriage 
of two such freaks as you and Irene have always been.” 

“Hold, lady, hold! Leave Irene off, but put me on the double 
portion of freakdom.” 

“No, I will put her there, too. She is a good freak, and always 
has been, but who but Irene could have wielded in your life the in- 
: fluence she has wrought?” 

“Well, in that you say truly. Surely if ever any good comes of 
my life God will add a star to her crown for it, for she has been to 
; me a sturdy oak.” 

“Well, then, when an oak is to wed a freak the world ought to 
be allowed to look.” 

“I would like that fine, myself. What does my Irene say?” (No 
sound.) “Silence gives consent, so we will prepare for the wedding, 
if her mother don’t stop us. I can’t tell you how I dread to face 
your mother, Irene. I fear to see her and you not there, and I am 
afraid to let you hear what she will very likely say to me, lest you 
see it her way, and hate me yet.” 

“I do not think mother will be cross with you when she knows 
how sorry you are, Edward. I myself felt as if I could not forgive 
you, but when I heard you talk as you did I could not do other¬ 
wise, and I love you as I used to do. The unpleasant past seems 
like a wild dream. I think we will be quite happy, and now, Ed- 






222 


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ward, you had better go and get rested, ready for mamma in the 
morning, seeing you dread her so.” 

Hold,” says Jack. “Read our lesson, and pray with us before 

V° U g°” I ; 

The lesson Edward read was Rev. xxii., and when prayers were 
ended he took his hat and went home, but not to sleep, but to fear 
he was dreaming, and that any moment he might awaken and find 
Irene still lost to him. Then he goes over the misery of Mrs. Ray¬ 
mond’s refusal to let Irene marry him, and then what if she should 
become the wife of some other man? And so he puts in the night, 
as those who wait for the morning.” Finally it comes, and he is up 
early and neatly but modestly dressing himself he is off, and eats 
breakfast down town, telling his mother he has very important busi¬ 
ness and cannot wait. Just as Jack Harsh turns over for another 
nap the door bell rings, and on going down he is surprised to see 
Edward, faultlessly dressed and groomed, standing at the door, but 

Tup flasks Jack CareWOm ^ ^ ^ “ Why > °' d mani what 

It isT'Yn d0n ’ t T y ° U *" 0W 1 a “ t0 See Irene ’ s mother this morning? 
it is 7: JO, and I am to see her at 9:00.” 

“Good for you. Peggy is going over, too. When did you get up’” 

I ve been up since 4:00. I’ve been out and seen where they live 

had a mind to call them up. Then I thought I had better wait”' 

Ire \ S00n , aS Jack toId Pe SSJ all about it she, woman-like, told 
Irene how long he had been np, where he had been, how h was 
dressed, how worried he looked, and up the whole house gets, Ind 
bi eakfast and morning devotions and duties cared for, the whole 
crowd take the car for Raymonds at 8:30. 

Mother Raymond is just finishing' her morning work. Father 

fe/Tld”Td S ? m th and qUiet ' y Irene > “ What 

ter, child? and gets the answer, “Oh, nothing,” but he can see 







FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


223 


they are all excited and Edward scared, and he guesses in his heart 
why. But not for long, for Edward blurts out why they are here 
and asks his consent. Irene stands by her father’s chair, her hand 
on his shoulder. He looks into her face and says, “What shall I 
say, daughter?” 

In low, earnest tones, scarcely audible, Irene replies, “I love him, 
father, with all my heart.” 

“Then I say yes, my children, and may our God give you both 
His choicest blessings.” 

“May I speak to your wife?” says Edward. 

Father goes to the back door and calls, “Mother, come; we have 
company, and Irene is home.” 

Mother comes quickly, but meets Peggy and the tots at the parlor 
door, greets them heartily, kisses Irene and welcomes Jack, then 
turns to Edward, a cold, inquiring stare. He rises, and extending 
his hand, says: “I came, Mrs. Raymond, to ask you to forgive me 
all my past. God has done so, your daughter has done the same, so 
has your husband. Won’t you please forgive me, too? I would 
have come sooner, but until last night I did not know where to 
find you.” 

A look of relief passed over her face, and she said: “Oh, surely, 
Mr. Schilling. When God forgives so do I. We can be friends so 
long as the past is not repeated, and so long as you show you are 
penitent. It can do no hurt to be just friends.” 

“Can you suggest what I can do to better prove to God and man 
that I am repentant, and that I am trying to be a good man?” 

After thinking for a moment she answered: “No, I really can not, 
Mr. Schilling. Now that you have so scarred your life, I guess you 
have done the best you could to heal all but the scars.” 

“If you can suggest anything more, I will be more than glad to 
hear about it.” 





224 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


“No, I guess you are all right to be a friend.” 

“But, Mrs. Raymond, I came to ask of you more than that. I 
want to be your son by law. Will you accept me as such?” 

How her eyes flash now, as she looks at him. How tenderly and 
pityingly she looks at her daughter. Now she talks. 

“Do you remember when I got in jail while I hunted Irene? Do 
you know how I came to need to hunt her? Do you remember the 
preacher’s little daughter that was shut in that place ? Do you know 
about the fellow they called a ‘ringer,’ whose sole business it was to 
find if a poor girl was dissatisfied, and then report it to the madam, 
who would whip them and torture them like the furies, until the poor 
things were so cowed they were afraid to tell any one they were 
even dissatisfied ? Do you know I saw the minister’s little daughter 
so whipped, and that they drugged her when she declared afte°r all 
their whipping she would go with mamma, no matter what they 
said? Do you know she died before she even reached home from 
the treatment she received down there? Do you know I thought of 
you as causing my poor girl to suffer like that? Since all this is 
true, how dare you ask me to give you my child?” 

“Mrs. Raymond, my heart breaks that all you say is true. But 
God has forgiven me. I am trying my best to make amends for the 
past. I only dare ask you to accept me on the ground that with all 
my heart I repent and I love your daughter, and want her more than 
I want this earthly life, and will guard her and love her and try to 
make her happy with my whole heart. I know I am asking of you 
much—more than I can ever repay. But I will surely do my best to 
make her happy, and I believe she loves me a little, don’t you, Irene?” 

“With all my heart, Edward, and I hope mother gives us her 
blessing. Father and the rest have.” 

With kindling eyes, Mrs. Raymond says: “Well, Irene, I am 



FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


22o 


surprised. You who have harped so much about heredity and family 
and environment, and all that talk. I suppose you want you v chil¬ 
dren to be born blind, or to lack an arm or foot, or to be simple, or 
to live till you love them and their little lives*go out, and he whom 
you marry to become silly when old age comes on and you need to 
lean on him, as so many old fellows do w r ho have been naughty 
when they were young. I guess your own mind must be weakening. 
You make me sick at my stomach.” 

Laughingly Irene goes and puts her arms about her mother’s 
neck and says, “Mother, our noble race can make up that part of 
life to our babes, should God send them.” 

“Oh, yes, child. Youth always laughs at sorrows, but age sees a 
different side.” 

“Please, Mrs. Raymond, I will do all I can to save Irene trouble. 
Won’t you accept me?” 

Irene looks in her eyes, and laughing, says, “Please, mother, I 
wish you would.” 

“Very well, my child; remember when your tears fall thick and 
fast, and the dose you must swallow is bitter, I give you my con¬ 
sent to wed him, not him my consent to wed you, and when down 
time’s aisle your child looks in your face and says, ‘Mother, why is 
this or that?’ tell him for me, ‘Son, your mother always wanted her 
own way, and got it, and this is the result.’ I give you both my 
blessing, but can that do any good, with the dark taint of sin which 
must flow through his veins, even though God has forgiven him?” 

“Yes, mother; I know you will be praying for us all the while, 
and that God will hear.” 

“Very well, I do hope He will.” 

Quickly Edward walks over, and dropping down by her chair 
says: “I thank you, my mother. I shall try to so live that you may 
never regret having given me your richest earthly treasure, and re- 






FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


22G 

member, she is still yours, and I am yours, too,” and he prints a 
kiss on her forehead, and another on Irene’s, and then he tells her of 
their desire to marry ^t the anniversary, and tries his best to get 
her interested, but she is cold and disappointed about it all, and 
though Peggy and the tots stay for the day, and though Edward is 
coming with Jack to spend the evening and take dinner, she is silent 
and seasons every meal with tears. But, like all good mothers, she 
gets busy after the first shock of it is all over, and helps prepare the 
wedding trosseau, and is to give them a luncheon, and do her best 
to help them start right. 

The world is wild about the wedding, and say “Good, and God 
speed the reformer and his wife.” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


THE WEDDING AND THE LIFE, 

Such a crowd as fills the Purity Building has not assembled for 
some time, not even for its dedication, and with difficulty the aisles 
are cleared for the wedding party. The orchestra strikes up the wed¬ 
ding march and the wedding party come slowly down the aisle. The 
Rev. Mr. Cromwell officiates. The great breathless crowd watch and 
listen till the ceremony is complete, and the bridal party march to 
their places on the platform, when the program proceeds. Edward 
gives to the cause of purity this property and all its furnishings and 
appurtenances, as a thank offering to God for deliverance from sin 
and for giving him his wife, and how he speaks for the cause. His 
speeches have been widely known, but this one is the climax of 
them all. 




FRESH FROM TFIE BARRENS 


227 


He urges the people to see that the law is fulfilled and that no 
young man be compelled to come as he came today, ashamed, to the 
most sacred shrine God has built on earth, just because he was al¬ 
lowed in his youth to hold lightly the sacred things of life. Others 
speak, and much gladsome music is given, and then the wedding 
luncheon after the program, after which the special friends all go to 
the new Schilling home and spend an informal evening, enjoying the 
wedding presents and seeing them installed in their new home. 

******** 

How time has flown. The purity law is making changes almost 
unbelievable in this great land of ours, and already a great change 
can be seen in the conduct of the young. No girl from a good 
family now goes to meet a boy up town and go with him, God knows 
where, and home alone after he is done with her, to tell mother, oh, 
anything; but the boys go to the house and get the girls and get 
acquainted with mother, and are responsible to her where they go 
and what they do. They bring the girls back home at a respectable 
hour, and life is beginning to be worth while again, and even panics 
are not so frequent, for young men are learning thrift, whereas 
they used once to dissipate and practice extravagance. In short, in 
the three years that have passed you would scarce know the 
land, because of the changes wrought. Our friends the Harshes 
have steadily grown prosperous and happy and content. Their 
family has increased by the advent of another baby boy, and he is 
now beginning to toddle. The wealth of the Schillings has grown 
by leaps and bounds, until the name Schilling is known everywhere 
in a mercantile way, and the home of Edward and Irene has proved 
a haven of rest and peace to many a weary soul. 

Edward’s sister has, through the influence of Irene, become a 




228 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


good woman and staunch Christian, and Father and Mother Schilling 
have learned to love, not the world, neither the things of the world, 
hut have the love and peace of God in their hearts. In a short 
while Miss Schilling is to marry the man responsible for her past 
sin, and he sought and wanted her—she did not capture him. 

As we sit in the hall waiting foY an interview regarding the on¬ 
coming wedding, we hear a very young and very weak cry. In 
answer to our surprised look of inquiry the old butler says: “Sir, 
the Schillings have a little son—Edward, Junior. He is just a few 
hours old. The mother is doing fine, but the doctor says he may 
not live—he lacks vitality.” 

We note all this for the paper, get our notes about the wedding 
and go our way. Those who know them well, say Irene is very 
happy with Edward. She says he is the kindest and most manly 
fellow in all the world, and she could not live without him. At 
one time it was thought all their wealth had gone, and then she 
even clung closer to him, for she really loves him, truly and well, 
and he thinks his Irene is more than all the world and the best wom¬ 
an living. But a few weeks after the wedding of Miss Schilling 
we see a white hearse stand at Edward’s door and see a tiny casket 
borne away, followed by the grief stricken parents, and we see it 
lowered into the vault and hear the piteous cry of the mother for her 
babe. All eyes are wet save those of the grandmother, Mrs. Ray¬ 
mond. No grief is deeper than hers, and no heart more ground to 
powder, but: she remembers her warning and is sorry she gave it, 
seeing it came so terribly, fearfully true. Edward is all tenderness 
to Irene, but she, too, remembers her mother’s warning, and while 
she could not let her Edward go, she still feels a pang of regret that 
is near to self reproach as she looks for the last time on the face of 
her darling babe. 

But Edward is so kind and loving that in time she thinks of her 



FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


229 


' 


I 




babe as one of God’s own, and her heart is healed and warmed and 
comforted. She and Edward have such a full life together—they can 
do anything or go anywhere they like, and never need ask, “Can we 
afford it?” Many poor families have been lifted to golden oppor¬ 
tunities by them for the sake of the rosy, barefoot' tots that romp in 
the home. A second and a third child come into their home, each 
staying a little longer than the one before, the last staying five years 
and more, until he was the idol of his father’s heart, and they thought 
surely he was going to stay. At the first sign of failing health Irene 
and Edward and Mrs. Raymond took him to the very best specialists 
of New York, London, Berlin, Heidelberg, Baden Baden, Vienna. All 
told the same disheartening story. 

“But,” said Edward to Dr. Liebkind, “You treated me before he 
Was born. Is not that of some avail for him?” 

“That he has remained with you this long is very likely due to the 
treatment you have taken. I have done for him all that I know. 
Even our new and supposed to be infallible remedy I have used, but 
he does not seem to have enough vitality to survive. You might try 
one more thing—the last remedy I know. I will treat him, but you 
take him to Lourdes Springs. Report to me daily by wire or letter, 
and if need be I will make visits to him, if you want to pay the 
price, and we will try out the new remedy for his benefit.” 

“We go, mother,” said Edward. 

And off they go, sparing the child all they can of strength and 
patience, that the trip, may, if possible, not even weary him. Now 
that he is there he is gaining rapidly. Dr. Liebkind is very much 
in earnest, for he greatly pities the multi-million-dollar man, 
with no son to carry his name and posterity down through time, and 
then he thinks, “Just see what he has done for the whole world, I 
might say, for not only his land, but ours, begins to feel the breath 
of freedom from sin and vice his law has ushered in.” The boy is 









230 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


gaining fast. How he enjoys the healing water. He and his father 
play together in it, and now use it to the utmost, and a bloom comes 
to his cheek different from any seen for many days. How their hearts 
beat high with hope. Soon they plan now to return home, but the 
boy seems loth to go, and says, “Oh, father, let us stay by the water 
a little longer,” and so they linger on. Day by day his strength in¬ 
creases, and they are very happy these days, and now they go about 
a little, seeing the many sights that the boy enjoys and can under¬ 
stand. 

Son, said Edward, “you will be a wonderful boy in school if 
you just keep in mind these things you see and hear, and as you 
will soon be in school and have little chance to travel, I want you 
to see all your strength will permit, but remember, always tell 
father, and soon as you are tired right there we stop.” 

On one of their trips to Paris the child became very sick, so that 
several days elapsed before they could return to the springs, and 
when they did he was too weak to enter into the old joys of the 
water as he had before, but looked upon the whole as part of the 
bad medicine he had to take. Dr. Liebkind said: 

“Any strong boy ought quickly to survive all that seems to be his 
ailment, but his vitality being so low, I scarcely know what to say 
only use. as little of his strength as you can.” 

In hours when his pain would cease how he would question father 
and mother about his condition, and why was he weak? And what 
d!d Dr. Liebkind mean about vitality and blood, and new remedies 
and healing water? And so he ran on, child like, driving close to the 
truth, and piercing their burning, lacerated hearts, until in speech- 
ess despair Edward would lie face down for hours, and pray and cry 
to God as he remembered the sins of his youth, and the rosy son he 
once so gladly parted with. Not that he could spare Irene, but he 
looked on the loss of his darling sons as God’s just reward for sins 





FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


231 


till now unrepented, “for,” he told Irene, “I have never until now 
thought much about that child, and when I did it was with a sort 
of relief that I did not know where or what he was,” and then in 
| despair he cried out, “Oh, my God, will the day never come on earth 
when I may cease by suffering to see my sins as black as they have 
been? As I see it now, in the light of this hour, I have at times felt 
a fear lest that boy turn up and inherit with yours.” 

“I really believe, Edward, if you could view them all as God sees 
them, and get your mind right, you would not need these fearful 
lessons. I am sure you at heart are God’s child, but you know the 
good old book says, ‘Let this mind which is in Christ Jesus dwell in 
you richly,’ and I really believe your sins are of the head, not of the 
heart. A life of sin always dulls the mind. Try to ask God’s help, 
and try yourself to judge your inmost thoughts by what you think 
Christ would have you think and do. I do that and many times you 
praise my judgment.” 

“Pray for me, Irene, that I may succeed.” 

Before she could answer, the boy raised up and said: “Who, 
father? Who inherit with me? Have I a brother? Where is he? 
I want to see him. Bring him here, father, won’t you, please? I 



Too dazed for speech, Edward sat and stared, his whole face speak¬ 
ing the pain he felt but no word escaped his lips, until the child put 
the question: “Where is he, father? Bring him here, won’t you?” 

He, the father of them both, had never asked his heart, much 
less his God, that question. 

But Irene took the child in her arms, and this is the story she 
told him: 

“Son, father had a child before he had you and I. The mother is 
dead. He lost track of the child, and does not know where he is.” 








232 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


The boy reached over, and climbing on his father's knee, stroked 
his head with his little weak hands, saying: “Poor daddy, I am so 
sorry for you. How bad you felt when I ran away that time, and 
you could not find me for a whole hour. How long have you hunted 
him, daddy?” 

Edward cannot answer, and if you are averse to seeing a strong 
man’s grief, do not peep in now, for his grief controls him. Irene 
answers: “Son, when you get well, let you and I help daddy find 
him.” 

“Yes, poor father, mother and I will find him for you. Don’t 
cry, daddy,” and then he went on planning what he and this big 
brother of his would do when they found him, until joy came 
back into their hearts and hope revived, and in their joy they let 
him talk until suddenly the blood spurted from his mouth and nos¬ 
trils and one of those terrible hemorrhages was on again. Though 
they summoned all the help they knew, he never gained strength to 
say much to them again, but asked often about the brother he so 
wanted to see. One day he asked his mother: 

“Why, mother, am I not strong? What does Dr. Liebkind mean? 
I listen, and listen, but cannot understand him. I like your way, 
mother, and understand you always. Won’t you explain to me?” 

Tier mother s speech of long ago comes and weighs her down, 
but choking down her grief she says: “Why, son, you are not 
naturally strong, but father and mother are both doing all they can 
for you now. We hope you will soon be well.” 

By the hour she amused him in any way she could to make him 
forget his pain. Then one cool night his little life went out, and 
heartbroken, they brought him back and put him with the other two, 
for now they knew it was all over, since the great specialist told 
them that possibly they could never rear a healthy child. So they 
laid him away, and turned to God and each other for comfort, with 






FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


233 


regret in the heart but no reproach on the lips, resolved to do all they 
could for young parents with only rosy cheeked tots, and no money 
with which to provide for them. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE CASTLE OF GOOD WISHES. 

Twice each year their mansion and its spacious grounds were 
opened to all children who wished to come. These festal days were 
Christmas arid Fourth of July, and the days were celebrated in grand 
old style. Christmas tide ending after the dinner, with the great 
tree and its accompanying goodies, and the Fourth with an outdoor 
dinner, a treat of good things, and a grand display of fireworks at 
night. 

At Christmas time it was the custom for each child, when re¬ 
ceived by the servant, to whisper in her ear the thing it wanted 
most. Strange to say, by New Year’s eve their wishes all came true, 
and so the children named their home “The Castle of Good Wishes.” 

The Harsh children really thought that they, in some mysterious 
way, belonged about half as much to the. Schillings as to their own 
parents, and were they denied a thing at home they did not care at 
all, “for the first time we see Auntie Irene we will get it,” and they 
did. 

Peggy never objected, only to say, “Don’t do it, Irene, unless you 
just want to, and get pleasure out of the doing, for I really fear 
they impose on you. So any time they do, be free to stop them in 
your own way, for you know they think they partly belong to you, 
and what you say or do is right to them.” 







234 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


Often, as she listened to her tots as they lisped their evening 
Prayer, or as they bowed their heads to thank God for the food they 
ate, she would think with love and pity of the great empty home on 
the hillside, with all its trappings of wealth, and of the little woman 
there, and then of the three little bodies out at Crown Hill, and the 
fact that that wife would never know the joy that is always in a 
home child-filled. 

Often at night, as she cuddles them to sleep, and hears their 
piayers, she thinks of the different things that were so simple, and 
yet meant so much to her—the first laugh, the first conscious 
reaching of the hands, the first time they crawled from the place 
where they were put, the first white tooth, the first step, the first 
word, and then the sentence, and then the baby prattle; then she 
remembered the first time Henry went to the grocery, and the time 
he ran away ; and then school, and the different grades in school, and 
now she thinks of what she is looking ahead to in all of them. 
There are the commencements, and the first love affair, and the first 
work for money, and weddings, and on down she dreams as they 
sleep, until she and Jack are grandpa and grandma—then she awoke 
with a start, and looking the tots over and kissing them all again, 
she crept quietly into bed, and lay picturing Irene’s late years of 
life. She saw her happy and loved by her husband first, then by a 
great multitude who followed the loaves and fishes, and she saw her 
very popular, and when her life shall close a long article in each 
newspaper telling of all her good deeds. “Even now,” she told her¬ 
self “whatever she does is news to all people of all classes, and her 
circle of true friends is very great, but she would give it all for one 
rollicking, healthy boy, who would come in and slam the door, and 
Shout, Mother, what you got good for dinner? I am almost starved,’ 
like my Henry does, and I would not trade one of my blessings for 
all of hers, though hers were multiplied many times. Tomorrow I 


































































































































* 





















































- 





















The Castle of Good Wishes. 



































FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


237 


must let them go over and see her. She called today asking why 
they did not come,” and so she fell asleep. 

In the “Castle of Good Wishes” the mistress turned from side to 
side on her sleepless bed, while the money king slept peacefully on. 
She could not get it out of her mind tonight—all that she had laid 
in that vault out there. She longed for all those simple blessings 
that we have just mentioned that are so near and dear to the heart 
of every good woman, the loss of which must tell on the life. The 
old clock in the hall swung its pendulum back and forth, and to her 
weary ears it whispered up the stair, “They’re gone! They’re gone! 
All gone! All gone!” 

Finally she slept, and the next day the children came, glad and 
happy, bringing her a basket of fresh vegetables from their very 
own garden. “Not papa’s garden, Auntie Irene, but ours. We hoe 
every day, some, and some morning when we gets up it looks like 
God hoed it in the night time, it is so mellow and nice, and when we 
ask mother about it she smiles and says, “Was it done well, tots?’ 
and we says ‘Yes,’ and then she says, ‘He comes and hoes our hearts 
and lives when it is all dark, and then He sows lots of seeds of 
love; but if we are bad and won’t pray and ask God to take care of 
us, Satan comes and sows lots and lots of hate and trouble, and 
then we can’t be happy,’” and so they run on, and the day just 
flies, and she and Edward take them home at night in the new auto¬ 
mobile. At home out they bounce, and run in yelling, “Oh, papa 
and mother, come quick and see our new automobile.” A look of joy 
passes between Irene and Edward at the emphasis they place on the 
“our,” and into their hearts creeps the joy of even part ownership of 
a happy, rollicking child, and when Peggy says, “Why, children, it is 
not ours, but Uncle Edward’s and Aunt Irene’s,” Henry answers, 
“Sure, mother; not yours and father’s, but ours,” waving his hand 
to include themselves with the real owners. 







238 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


Irene s heart beat high with joy to be recognized by these chil¬ 
dren so dear to her as having a vital part in their lives, and she 
goes home very contented and happy, hearing again their childish 
voices as they echoed through the big house today. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


THE LAD AND JOHN BUTLER. 


Irene and Edward talked long into the night, and wondered after 
the boy so long forgotten, and, as they have found, so securely hid¬ 
den from them, for they have run down every clue, to end only in 
darkness, and as in the case of Irene, Edward has not spared him¬ 
self the humiliation of his past history in advertising for the boy, 
and his offers have been lavish. He and Irene have visited Royal 
Center again and again, but the cemetery reveals to them that 
mther and Mother Jones lie beside Marie, and the other children all 
found their mates near home, and did well, but strange to say, 
they can only get track of one of them. They have all gone to dif¬ 
ferent localities, and all the one they do find can, or at least will, 
tell them is, “Yes, he is living and well. She has not seen him for 
some time but John Butler is making a good father and educating 
him, and he looks just like Edward. No, John never married, but 
always cherished Marie as his own in God’s sight.” To their anxious 
question of “Where does he live?” her eyes take on a twinkle that 
away back in their depths holds a touch of the vindictive (and who 
can blame her) as she answers: 

to “ W ^L Sir :. JOhn , anticipatcd thi8 hour from y° u > for he often said 
us, The time of retribution is coming,’ and so he never told us 









FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


239 


where he lived, and so I or any of our family could not possibly tell 
you, and as he was so good and manly to poor Marie, we thought 
it wise to leave that to his judgment, even if at times it should prove 
an inconvenience to you and us,” and so saying she seated them to a 
table well filled with choice and substantial fare, which Edward in¬ 
sisted on paying for at a good price. How he wished he could offer 
her a price and thereby gain knowledge of his son, but as he looked 
at her he knew she had no price, and that she would not betray the 
whereabouts of John Butler and Edward, Jr., for many more mil¬ 
lions than he possessed. 

She talked freely of the boy and the progress he is making in 
school. She believes he goes to high school next year. No, she has 
no idea of where the school is located. Yes, the boy has chosen his 
life work, and she knows what it is, but likely John would not want 
her to tell. It might be the missing link and John has been so very 
good, she will leave that to him. No, she will not tell him of their 
visit. He might think she favored him giving them the boy, and 
she did not. She considered the degree of manhood John had dis¬ 
played of far more value to the boy than many millions of dollars, 
and as for what their dying son said and wished, she remembered a 
dying sister who said and wished some things, too, and John Butler 
did his very best to supply those wishes, and had he been given a 
chance, no doubt that sister would now be living, and the good and 
happy wife of John Butler and mother of the boy, “and as I view it 
thus, it is idle for you to spend time quizzing me as to the lad’s 
whereabouts.” 

So they found themselves dismissed, and turned to the gay young 
fellow who told us of Marie on Senate avenue, and of his getting the 
minister’s little daughter to take her place. They found him in a 
prison cell, serving a long sentence for the crimes we already know 
him to be guilty of, for of course he never thought the purity bill 




240 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


meant lie should earn his bread by the sweat of his brow until the 
arm of the law reached out and laid hold upon him. So here they 
find him. He tells them a wild, exciting tale of where and how to 
find the boy, and being long used to lying, it looks plausible, and Ed¬ 
ward pays him a handsome sum, saying, “Poor fellow, you will be 
quite old when you get out of here. I hope you be a good man and 
fear God and keep His commandments. Take this. It may be a 
good help to you in starting over. May God bless and help you, is 
my prayer.” 

They went out and followed liis story to the end, to find it false 
in every particular. 

All these things they talk over tonight, as they lie on a soft but 
sleepless bed. They, too, conclude that the reason John Butler was 
not impressed by the story of how little William longed for his 
unknown brother was that he looked at it just like Marie’s sister 
had expressed herself, and decided their punishment was just, and 
that at any rate they thanked God the boy was well and happy and 
in good hands, but that if they ever got track of him they Avould re¬ 
member him well with gold, even if he never cared for them, and so 
they fell asleep, to be awakened at an early hour by the imperative 
ringing of their doorbell, and to hear the butler turning someone 
away, and faintly hearing his voice call, “John Butler. Yes, sir, I 
will tell them. But this is an hour too early for them, or I would 
let you in.” 

They both spring out of the bed, and rushing to the front win¬ 
dow and leaning out, all forgetful of his lack of raiment, Edward 
whistles and calls, “Hey!” in a voice tense with the earnestness he 
feels. The straight, broad-shouldered man sauntering down the 
gravel walk and leisurely taking in the beauty of “The Castle of 
Good Wishes,” turns and chuckles as he sees the scantily clad figure 
leaning out of the window, surrounded by all the evidences of wealth, 




FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


241 


but gesticulating to him to return. In his looks and action John 
sees no evidence of dignity or the haughty actions he so well remem¬ 
bers and was expecting to see. He walks back, and is greeted thus: 

“My friend, who did I understand you to say you are?” 

With a merry smile John answers, “John Butler.” 

“God bless you, John. Be seated and I will come down and let 
you in.” 

John’s mirth overshadows the sorrow he has felt at the fear of 
losing the boy, and when the great hall door swings open he goes to 
the door expecting to meet the unclothed, spluttering man of a few 
moments ago, but instead he meets a lady of about the age and bear¬ 
ing of Marie, and in turn he is agape, but extending a slim hand she 
says: “Mr. Butler, I bid you welcome. I am, or was, Irene Ray¬ 
mond. Come in and permit me to help Mr. Schilling do honor to an 
occasion which gives both he and I more pleasure than our tongues 
know how to express, and the joy of which is marred by only one 
harassing fear—that you come to report some ill of the boy.” 

“No, thank you, ma’am; he is quite well and happy.” 

“Be seated in the library here, Mr. Butler, and by your permis¬ 
sion I will go and report the same to Mr. Schilling, for he was panic- 
stricken lest Edward had followed his other sons to an untimely 
grave. May I tell him he is well ?” 

“By all means, ma’am; you are surely worthy to tell your hus¬ 
band any good news.” 

“Thank you, sir. Make yourself perfectly at home, and if you 
do not see me until breakfast, know that I am preparing for your 
comfort.” 

Soon Edward comes down, and he and John chat on a few mo¬ 
ments, when Edward said: 

“John, old man, how about our boy—mine by blood, yours by 
every law of right God has written?” 





242 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


“Well, sir, I came to talk with you of him. He and I and Mary 
ray s.ster, of whom I never told any of you, have read all you said 
m the papers about wanting your boy, and what the dying brother 
said about him. It all took such a hold on the lad that my love for 
him led me to consult you. While I have plenty, in the ordinary 

but if t ’ i C ° UrSe 1 Cann0t giVe him the ad ™ntages you could, 
it if it is an heir you seek, my love is worth more to him than 

hi°s Ur stenflth He k *!, 0WS i u ““ " 0t MS real father > but Iooks on me as 
ns stepfather, and while Mary and I have never actually told him 

so, we have been very willing he should think it—in fact led him 

Wh b r, that 1 h °' d that tMe ’ and that of aunt We 
have his mother’s picture, life size, in our little parlor, and often 

he used to stand and talk to her when a tot. Now he often sits 

Td0 O ther e telT hlS ,! aC ? ^ the 1 uestion his baby lips used to speak, 

and a P an T , ^ ^ ^ father > bl »od father 

aI ’ and f° r a l0 »g time Mary and I have wondered what we 
Ught to do, but the fear that your wife would not love him held 
US from any action we might have taken.” 

h,f d :i£“ t0 Speak in behaIf »f Irene, but John stopped 

star ~ 

- - - *“•«-« ; sis Tirjss “; 



FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


243 


views if I do not see for myself.’ I can't tell you, sir how we suf¬ 
fered, for that brown-eyed boy is the joy of our lives, and were he 
gone from us home never could be the same again. I answered him, 
‘Well, son, I will think about it and talk it over with Aunt Mary, 
and let you know in good time.’ I got away, and so did Aunt Mary, 
and looking back, we saw that lad looking after us in the most 
puzzled way. He is a strange boy, and sharp. My, how far be¬ 
yond his years in everything. You know he is in high school, I sup¬ 
pose. Well, he is in town. I left him and Mary over at the hotel, 
and came to talk to you about it. What have you to suggest? He 
knows nothing of his relation to you, and little of his father’s his¬ 
tory, save that there was some trouble that made his mother prefer 
he took my name, which, sir, is really John Wescot, and he knows 
himself as Edward Wescot.” 

“Well, my dear sir, I bid you welcome and Godspeed to all that 
we possess, and would love to claim him as mine if you are willing. 
I could do much for him, as you know, and you and your sister 
would always be welcome to come and see him at your will. What 
do you say?” 

Just then Irene came to ask them to breakfast, thinking the good 
old farm way of invitation would make Mr. Butler feel more at home, 
and Edward tells her all they have talked, even to the name of 
Wescot, and asks her opinion of what is best. 

Looking at John Wescot as he sits, his head bowed in sorrow for 
fear of losing the child, and remembering her own grief of not long 
ago, she answers: 

“Well, it is evident we all want him very much. That we now 
have much to offer him is no mistake. That Mr. Westcot cared for 
him when we gave him but little thought is also fearfully true. I 
therefore say, Mr. Wescot, all we have is at your command. Bring 
Mary and little Edward and occupy the old house with us while you 




244 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


stay. Tell the boy I want him to see us as we are, and to help 
entertain the children tomorrow, same as if you three were part of 
our family. Never hint to him that our blood is in his veins. Stay 
as long as you will, and welcome. In turn, let us visit you, and 
there in your home we will tell him all and let him decide, and all 
of us abide by the decision. If he chooses us, which of course we 
hope he will, you two must come along, not as servants, but as 
part of the family. If he chooses you, as you hope he will, then let 
us visit him and, as you dictate, furnish for him, through you, some 
of the things he needs-for instance, the things you would like him 
to have and feel you cannot afford.” 

Edward, ever proud of Irene and her opinions, looked and waited 
for John’s reply. 

John, lifting his head with hope in his eye, said: “You are ri°Iit 
ma’am. That is fair to all. When shall we come?” 

‘‘This morning, sir, if you will,” and as he rises to go they press 
inn to eat with them, and he does, saying he told Mary and the boy 
not to wait for him, as his head ached and he was not hungry. As 
they eat they plan, and Irene goes down to the store with Edward 
inkmg that the best place for them to all meet for the first time’ 
and John goes to the hotel for Mary and the boy. 

What can be keeping them? It has been one hour, and they 

heTwln W0U ^ b T ° Ver in ten Sh ° rt minute8 - Just about 

“ ‘ , ™ Irene 1,1 the rest *' 00m > where they wondered if 

Mary had refused their plan, Edward stepped from the elevator to 
see, not the gawk he had thought possible, but a neatly dressed self- 
possessed lad and lady with John Wescot, strolling around the store 
making a purchase here and there, but really sight-seeing 

wnv / teP r«t UP t0 EdWard 98 he P ur P° se 'y Put himself in the 
way^ and said, Sir, where will my sister find the rest room)” 

Directing her there, Edward said, “I thought you from out of 






FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


245 


town. Where do you hail from? I am Edward Schilling, and love 
to make friends of our out-of-town customers. Some of our best 
vacations have been taken among them.” 

Then John introduced the boy and Mary, and he and Edward ex¬ 
changed cards, while father and son clasped hands, and looked each 
for the other’s soul, from two pairs of eyes so alike that, seen alone, 
could not be told apart. 

Edward said: “My wife is upstairs. I want you people to meet 
her. Come with me,” and up they go, and are soon all chatting 
merrily, and the Wescots are going out to spend the time with them, 
and the boy has been asked to contribute one game to tomorrow’s 
fun. He has ordered air-guns for a sham battle, and says they will 
play soldier and have tents and all. How naturally he takes to 
their home of wealth. By noon every nook and cranny is explored. 
How Irene’s hungry heart enfolds him. “But,” she says, “I will play 
fair, if I die. Good old John and Mary. How well they have brought 
him up. Oh, if only William could have lived to know him. Why, 
he’s been everywhere in true boy fashion, and not one mark of dis¬ 
order follows his trail.” 

Jack and Peggy Harsh are told, and all come over too, and help 
prepare for the morrow. All the children know is that a soldier boy 
is going to help tomorrow, and that the day will partly be spent 
playing soldier. Tents are stretched in true army fashion, and the 
girls are in charge of the hospital tents, and are Red Cross nurses. 
The boys are to be leaders—Edward, general, and Henry his aid, on 
one side, and they expect to find some one by tomorrow to be the 
British general. What a day it proves to be. As is usual, a row of 
seats for grown folks is placed clear around the spacious grounds. 
This year it is doubled, and still they stand, for the paper spoke of a 
country lad who was there to help, and the world always expected 
and kept looking to see this king of finance find his long-lost son, 




246 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


but as they could only come inside at the noon hour and supper 

ime few got a good look at the miniature General Washington, as 
he played himself to be. 

Space forbids detail, but it was army life for a day, perfect as 
t - 011 e ’r° n ^ general took tlie bugle and sounded “taps.” This 
° ’j Ul ‘ V bleakfast was served on the grounds in true army 
style, then heavy cannon crackers announced the battle, and by noon 
the fight was in full force, and each fellow ate as best he could. How 
the nurses hurried at their work, and were protected according to 

and tlm y d T,° the battle Was WOn - Washin gt°n the victor, 

and the dead (some wooden soldiers prepared for the purpose of 

mutilation were hurnedly buried, soldier fashion, in the great sand 

pile back of the house. The wounded were restored and the prisoners 

t free (from the top of the tower where they had viewed the whole 

pioneerings), lunch is eaten and songs of home are sung around the 

camp fires by these school boys, soldier boys, may we say ? And now 

e fireworks begin, at the close of which the armies are mustered 

out and the crowds go home, to talk at length of this really gr It 

day and wonder who the country lad could be who planned it fll 

Many whispered that he was surely Schilling’s son whether bv 

Mane or not, “For,” say they, “he has the dad’s go in him If aU 
too plain to me.” r 8 a11 

They watch the paper, but it says nothing of sonship and the 
ame Wescot is to them a sealed book, but they wag the head and 
surmise, anyway. What a puff the papers gave of how instructive 
he day had been, and the various teachers of history who had at 
tended spoke highly of the good that must come of Lh an ento 
ainment and of the possibilities of a boy so young who could so 
quickly plan and execute such an affair * 8 “ 

But at table next day Edward, junior, said: “Why I did not 
Plan that one day. Every year when the Fourth came round I 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


247 


read what was done here and wished I could do just what we did 
yesterday, and now I am happy as a king, and it was a lot of fun, 
wasn t it, Henry ? And see, we almost got the grounds cleaned up, 
and the grass don’t look so bad, does it?” 

Should Miss Narromind happen along, I think she will say: 
“Well, youngster, I think you are pretty fresh. You have only been 
here three days.” She knows nothing of the law of life that makes 
blood tell, even in a case like this. 

Several days the Wescots spend with the Schillings, and then 
they turn homeward, promising to return, and exacting a promise 
from the Schillings to come in the near future, which they do, and 
find the boy perfectly contented on the farm, untouched by their 
wealth, even though he had delved, as only a child can, to the very 
bottom of it all. He meets their train and drives them home behind 
“Dolly,” the trotter the Wescots all love so well. He tells them how 
fast she can travel, but that she has a little colt now, and that is 
why he is letting her take it easy. 

“Whatever is mother on our farm takes it easy,” says Edward, 
Junior. Then in a tone of confidence, he continues: “Do you know, 
I half believe mother had some hidden sorrow, for when even young 
chicks hatch at our house, father looks at them, and then goes in by 
mother’s picture and stands—quite a while many times, sometimes 
only a short while—and in a dreamy voice he says to me, ‘Let her 
enjoy her young, lad; she is a mother, let her take it easy,’ and that 
is always his rule. Soon as I go and tell him, ‘Father, Dolly has a 
colt,’ or ‘Biddie is hatching chicks,’ away he goes to mother’s picture, 
and when they look, for do you know she seems at these times to 
come alive and look at him with lots and lots of love in her face, 
and hair and eyes, and then he always gives me the self-same words 
of advice, until I have great regard for a mother of any thing. So 
has father, you see.” 



248 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


The lad is too busy to turn and see the telltale faces at his back, 
and now they are there and receive a hearty welcome, and time flies 
swiftly and happily by, but all of the four dread to tell the boy the 
secret so close to their hearts. At last only a few hours remain, and 
it must be told. Edward finds the plan. He sends to the paper they 
receive daily a full account of the truth, and their plan for possession 
of the boy as we have told it to you. With aching hearts they four 
read it and await the boy’s reading and decision. Here he comes, 
leading the horses and whistling merrily. What restraint they all 
exercise, lest they use undue influence, for he is the prize of a life¬ 
time, and how they hope to win. What a good supper Mary has 
cooked, and just his way, and Irene has brought, and tonight gives 
him a new suit, the best she could buy, and the men stand silent 
and tense. 

At table the boy burst out laughing, and said: “Well, what’s 
up?” 

“Why?” says Irene. 

“Oh, you all act so queer—like something real good or real bad 
had happened, and you could not for your life tell which it was until 
I would tell you, and as if it was very important.” 

She answered: “It has, dear. After supper read the paper and 
tell us all about it. We are wild to know.” 

The paper told the whole story, omitting the plan about the 
money if he chose John and Mary. It also failed to state that should 
Edward and Irene be his choice, John and Mary were to come along. 
So he had a real choice to make. 

“Were I not so hungry and Aunt Mary’s supper so good, I would 
stop right now and decide for you, but I guess a matter left to a 
boy’s judgment could not be so serious, so I will ‘eat, drink and be 
merry;’ but you all look as if you had lost your last friend, or, 
what the world seems to value most, your last dollar.” 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


249 


As he gets no response, he soon finishes, and taking up the paper 
reads the headline, and he, too, is solemn. Looking from one to the 
other, he rises up, and going in by his mother’s picture, there reads 
carefully the whole article. There they find him after a little while 
with his book of clippings, of which they have conscientiously saved 
all, looking the thing over as carefully and judiciously as a great 
lawyer preparing his case. Finally, when he is through, he says: 

“Well, sir, Mr. Schilling, if I choose you, what have you to offer? 
And, do you both want me?” 

In one breath they say, “Yes, and all we have is yours, and Uncle 
John and Aunt Mary must come, and be one family, all of us. Yes, 
indeed, son, we want you,” and they rise to give their blessing. 

“Wait,” says the boy, and his tone is very tender. “Father” (how 
rich the word sounds) “and Aunt Mary, am I a burden to you? 
Would you like the plan they suggest?” 

“No, child, no; you are the joy of this life to iis, a blessing 
straight from God. We would go there if you wish it, that you 
may have many advantages we can never give you, but for us it 
would never be the same.” 

Standing full height, he said, “Come here, father. Kiss mother 
as you have so often when, we are here alone, and say, as you al¬ 
ways do, ‘Poor, dear little wife, how I love you.’ ” 

John obeyed. 

Turning to Edward, the boy continued, “Can you come and do 
that in the same way?” and in shame Edward answered simply but 
honestly, “No, child, I cannot.” 

“I believe you, sir. Neither can any but he be father to my 
heart on this earth, and until her lips speak and call you husband I 
can never call you father. That is my decision. Should you wish 
it, we will be friends—nothing more, for Uncle John, as I will now 
call him, loved mother, and he loves me. He has always taught me 



250 


fresh from the barrens 


that love seeks the highest good of its object, while lust seeks only 
the humiliating destruction of its victim. I feel so safe in his care. 
No, I cannot leave Uncle John.” 

Such a melee of “Thank God,” and “Forgive me, child; oh, can 
you ever forgive?” that the bewildered boy cannot tell who to for¬ 
give, nor whose thanks to sanction, and so, child-like, he says: 

3 d1, let US a11 g ° ° ut and finish su PP e r,” and out they go, the 
Schillings eating little more, but John, Mary and the boy eating 

heartily, while the boy says: “Now that it is all over and out I 
want to say I knew all about this for years.” 

“Who told you, child,” asks John. 

“Nobody But this scar,” bariug his arm that they may see 
the sear before mentioned, “and the voice inside me seemed always 
to tell me that story was my history, and I knew it that Fourth 

that' y h-T\l° nS r ef0re ' G ° d haS a " ay to let His chi l<lren know 
that which they should. I was shocked, sure enough, to find it 

tonight S J dr T 9 1 ° fte " WCnt thr ° Ugh What ha PPened here 

other Tl rT m . 1 tHed ° ne decision and som etimes the 

gloom » " ay 1 laVe declded tthva . vs "’ent well. The other was all 

always?'” Ire " e ’ “ W ° n,t y ° U P ' eaSe be ° Ur Very dear > de «r friend 

“Oh sure/’ says the youth. “And we will visit, if you like just 
as we have begun. I ltke you both, but he,” pointing to John “is 

<‘W H r T Way " ^ T 80 g °° d ‘° m ° thel '- and she loved him so.” 

home W-n t7 8 ' ard ’ “ 0ne m0re hour and we start for 
home. Will you take us over, child?” 

“Why,” asks John, “can’t we all go?” and they do. 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


251 


CHAPTER XL. 


PEACE AT LAST. 


When the train pulled out, carrying Edward and Irene to their 
really good works but childless home, the Wescots went back to their 
simple home through the moonlit road, the happiest family you ever 
did see, and on the way Edward told them of another dream he had 
of being a minister and winning souls by the hundreds for the 
Master, and finished as they went in home, “Since so many of 
my dreams have come true, I hope to make them all true,” and he 
-did. In due time he is educated and ordained, and his power and 
eloquence have already won many for the Master. The Wescots 
have rented the old farm, and have a comfortable and substantial 
home in Indianapolis, and John has a good position and stock in the 
Schilling store. 

The Harshes are well fixed and no one says “Jack” now, except 
Peggy and the old parents. The rest say “Judge Harsh,” and the 
title seems to fit so well that the most intimate friends use it, and 
it is Supreme judge, if you please. Their children are highly re¬ 
spectable and honorable men and women, following in the footsteps 
of their parents. 

The old folks, Schillings, Harshes, Raymonds and Strongs are 
living a peaceful, quiet life, forgetful of*past turmoils in the joy of 
present peace, and among them many good weddings have taken 
place. 

The zeal and good work at the “Castle of Good Wishes” has never 
abated, and Edward, junior, is always there on the two yearly holi¬ 
days to help celebrate, and occasionally one of Marie’s sisters and her 
children attend the festivities. 




252 


FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


This Christmas Edward, junior’s, young wife, Mary Harsh Wescot 
Schilling, is also there to help, and her parents, Judge and Mrs. 
Harsh, seem almost as joyful as the children, and the Wescots are 
as happy as joy can make them, for Edward, while compelled by 
law to use the name of Schilling, had, by that stronger law of love, 
used theirs also. 

‘Mary,” says John, “do you know I half believe, had not Ed¬ 
ward gone long ago and brought the law through making our Ed 
his son and then refused to change it, I don’t believe he would have 
had his name on the license at all.” 

“Now, John, be careful,” says Mary. “Green-eyed, you know. 
Watch and pray, lest-” 


With a hearty laugh he goes away to work, saying, “All right, 
Mary; I won’t forget again,” and he does not. A few brief years 
and he and Mary go home to live with Him who said, “As oft as ye 
did it unto one of the least of these ye did it unto me,” but not until 
they had sat often under the God-given power and charm of the 
voices of their son and daughter, Edward and Mary, and seen them 
by word, prayer and song, call many lost and straying sheep back 
into the shelter and safety of God’s fold. 

“Truly,” said John, “our boy is stripped for the race. His life 
could be no cleaner nor his heart purer, nor hers either, were they 
in the land beyond, Mary, and Edward Schilling would put up the 
money for any good work if the boy asked it, if it took the shirt 
from his back and the last cent from his pocket.” 

About one year after John and Mary Wescot go home, Edward 
Schilling is taken very ill. The doctors say he cannot live, and he 
calls for Edward constantly, and so the man goes and gives the 
comfort of God’s gospel. At the last Edward opens his eyes, fixed 
in the stare of death, and says, “Irene, dear,” and holding her by the 
hands says feebly, “Edward, Jesus,” and as a smile of recognition 



FRESH FROM THE BARRENS 


253 


crosses his face, he says, “Marie, forgive. Christ forgives. Thank 
you dear.” Involuntarily the young man kneels and gently says, 
“What is it, father? Look to Christ, who hath power on earth to 
forgive sins.” 

In a voice thick with death he opens his eyes and says, “Thank 
you, my son. May God’s richest blessings be on you and yours, and 
my Irene,” and drawing her to him in a close embrace he mur¬ 
mured, “Who—so—ever will-—may come—I—come—dear—Christ,” 
and he was gone. Lovingly they lay him with the three out in 
Crown Hill cemetery, and Irene says she cannot endure the big, 
lonely house and its stillness unless Edward and Mary share it with 
her, and seeing Edward left her sole control of all he possessed, she 
has compelled Edward, junior, to come to his inheritance by placing 
one-half of the whole estate in his name and at his disposal and 
under his and Mary’s control in various trust companies, and as he 
and Mary love the dear, lonely woman with all their hearts, they at 
last go and abide with her. Little John and Irene fill her heart in 
these her older days, with the joy she missed in youth. How she re¬ 
joices when Mary goes to help Edward in a meeting, and she has 
them all her own, and can love them her own way, and be all to them 
for a while, and not even a mother to come between. They call her 
grandmamma, and she loves the title. 

Edward’s power of life and speech, are increasing, and he receives 
calls everywhere, and has been used to bring whole multitudes to the 
Christ he so loves and for whose glory he lives, and there you may 
find them today, never dropping a work so long as it is fruitful of 
good, a busy, happy, clean crew, at peace with God and the world, 
at rest after all the storm. 


THE END. 


















































































































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